“I'm fine,” I say too loudly, my voiceshaking.
He would take them, and when they no longer served him, he would get rid of them.
Just like me. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow, maybe next year—I don't know.
But Marcus doesn't like me and never has. He’s going to get rid of me just like he got rid of them.
I have to get away from him.
I flush, buying time, and when I open the door to the stall, Marcus is standing there.
“How did you open that?” I say. “It was locked.”
“You must have forgotten to lock it,” he says, lying and gaslighting me. How long has he been gaslighting me? “Wash your hands, Bianca,” he says, his lips in a thin line.
I walk to the sink and wash my hands with trembling fingers as I try to formulate a plan to get away.
“You've embarrassed me enough for one evening,” he says in a snarl. “Let's get you home and cleaned up.”
But I already felt his hands around my wrists—and it doesn’t take much to imagine those same hands around my neck.
He isn't bringing me home tonight, is he?
No. I have to get away from him.
I dry my hands and make my plan. I nod to him and walk out the exit.
“We're done eating for tonight. Let's go back to the car,” Marcus says, his hand gripping my wrist again.
To the left is the dining room, with patrons and the exit to the parking lot, where a valet has parked his car.
To the right is the kitchen. It's busy and bustling. I see a woman with her soft brown hair pulled back in a severe bun. Her eyes meet mine. She takes one look at Marcus, his hand on my wrist, and the panicked look on my face—and we have a silent conversation, woman to woman.
“Help,” I mouth to her silently. “Please.”
Her eyes widen. She nods and lifts a huge butcher knife from the table in front of her, walks toward the refrigerator, then jerks her head for me to come.
My heart is beating so fast I’m dizzy, then I make my move. In seconds, I stomp on his foot with my heel. He howls and releases me. I feel the ghost of his hand on the back of my dress just as she steps in front of him, blocking his path. She holds the knife like a shield.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“Get out of my way,” he snarls, but she's got the knife and isn’t going to let him get past her.
“Who the hell do you think—that's my?—”
“Oh, so sorry,” she says, and she actually puts her leg out and trips him.
Then I run.
There are people all around me—chefs, waitstaff, and delivery people. It's utter chaos in here, but I see the exit door and run toward it with everything I have.
I push my way to the exit.
A big, burly chef looks at me with concern.
“You alright, love?” he says quietly.
“No.” I shake my head. “He's trying to hurt me.Pleasehelp.”
