Everyone in the kitchen froze, their eyes wide. Margaux was the first to snap out of her trance. “What are you doing? Focus!” she barked. “Service isn’t over.”
The staff quickly resumed their duties while she shooed Sebastian and me toward the door. “Go. I’ll handle things back here.”
We didn’t waste time arguing. We rushed out of the kitchen and skidded to a halt at the edge of the dining room.
Sebastian’s face was the color of his chef whites. “What thefuck?”
I tried to speak, but nothing came out. I observed the pandemonium that’d erupted in the short time I’d been gone with silent horror.
The diner closest to us had vomited all over his plate. Chunks of regurgitated lasagna splattered across the table as he doubled over, his chest heaving. Another pushed back her chair and ran to the bathroom, her face green. The other guests were panicking and scrambling out of their seats until they, too, started throwing up.
No. No, no, no.
My breath shortened. The scene took on a fuzzy quality, like I was stuck in a nightmare with no escape route in sight. What thehellwas going on?
Things had been perfect minutes ago. How did it all crash so fast, so spectacularly?
Maybe I was hallucinating. Maybe—
“Maya!” Ezra rushed over, his voice taut with stress.
His appearance yanked me out of my daze. This wasn’t a nightmare. This was real, and we needed damage control ASAP.
“What happened?” I demanded.
“I don’t know!” He gestured helplessly at the vomiting diners. The servers were trying to help them, but it wasn’t going well. We didn’t have enough staff for this. “Everything was fine until the editor fromMode de Viesaidhe was feeling nauseous. Then he threw up, and… Well, you see what happened next. It took less than two minutes.”
Fuck. Okay.
I forced a steadying breath through my nose and shoved my rising panic into a mental box.
I couldn’t freak out right now. Our number one priority was getting medical assistance. Once we made sure the guests’ symptoms weren’t the result of something worse than potential food poisoning (which would be bad enough),thenI could freak out.
I sent Ezra to call the appropriate authorities and figure out logistics with the shell-shocked venue coordinator. Once he was gone, I turned to Sebastian so we could brainstorm an emergency game plan.
“Seb, we—” I stopped short.
He hadn’t moved the entire time Ezra and I had been talking. He stared at the guests, his skin ashen. Sweat beaded his upper lip, and his chest rose and fell with jagged breaths.
A bolt of panic tore through me. “Are you okay? Do you need to sit down?”
“No.” His voice was a shade above a whisper. He sounded distant and hollow, like a shadow of his former self. A small shudder ran through his frame, and realization hit me like a ton of bricks.
The diners getting sick? That was his worst nightmare coming true for the second time. First, Martin Wellgrew died at the Le Boudoir opening. Now, our launch had devolved into a medical emergency. Both times, he’d been in charge of the kitchen, and both times, the night had ended in disaster.
A raw ache spread through my chest.
I placed a hand on his arm. His skin was clammy to the touch. “We don’t know what happened yet,” I said. “Donotblame yourself.”
The easiest explanation was food poisoning, but a gut feeling told me that wasn’t it. Sebastian was meticulous about food safety; I refused to believe he’d let anything slip, even if some of the staff were less experienced than we would’ve liked. The whole thing reeked of fishiness, but I’d investigate later. I had more pressing matters to address.
“I’ll let everyone else know what happened.” Sebastian didn’t acknowledge my reassurances, but at least he was moving again. He turned, avoiding my eyes. “You handle the guests; I’ll handlethe kitchen. We’ll connect later, once—” He swallowed hard. “Once everything calms down.”
“Okay,” I said softly.
My heart twisted again when he disappeared into the kitchen. I couldn’t imagine what he must be feeling right now, but losing myself to worry wouldn’t do either of us much good. We’d debriefafterwe got through tonight.
I forced my concern into the same box as my earlier panic and sprang into action.
