By the time we push the last plate at 10:45, the kitchen is running like clockwork. I stand back and watch the relentless parade of perfect dishes hitting the pass, the ballet of chefs weaving around each other without
missing a beat.
The staff looks at me with something approaching awe, like they're seeing me for the first time.
In a way, they are. Most of them have only known me as the CEO who shows up for tastings and meetings.
They've never seen me work a line, never watched me plate a dish or call out a service.
They don't know I was born for this shit.
"Not bad for a hoity-toity executive," Chase says, appearing at my elbow with a grin.He's sweat-slicked and tired, but the light in his eyes matches mine.
Like him, I'm exhausted but oddly energized.
"There was a time when this was all I knew how to do."
"You miss it." It's not a question, not really. Chase knows me well enough to read the
expression on my face.
His eyes fall to my hands. He sees that, even now, these scarred, burned, tattooed fingers of mine are reluctant to let go of the
towel I've been using to wipe down stations.
"Sometimes." I look around the kitchen—my kitchen, really, even if I don't run it anymore.
"It's simpler here. Either the dish works or it doesn't. Either the service runs smoothly or it falls apart. No politics, no board meetings,
no investors second-guessing every decision."
"No Erica Jones quitting over pastries." Chase Cut in smiling.
I cringe inwardly. I'd managed to forget about that.
"I need to run by the office," I say instead of responding to him. "Gotta check on some things before tomorrow. You good to get Carl home?"
Chase looks suspicious. "You could delegate, you know. Send someone else
to handle whatever urgent and definitely-not-made-up crisis is requiring your immediate attention at eleven o'clock at night."
I turn away so he can't see my face. "It's fine. It won't be long. Just a quick—"
"Can I ask you something?" he interrupts.
"I really wish you wouldn't."
But he barrels ahead anyway. "When's the last time you were happy, man? Because I gotta say, it's been a long time since you looked as alive as you looked in there tonight."
Happy. Christ. When was the last time I was happy? Really, genuinely happy?
I think about Erica's hands on my chest two nights ago, and I know that there is an answer in there somewhere I'm nowhere close to acknowledging.
"I don't remember," I admit.
Chase nods like he expected that answer.
"Yeah. 'Bout what I thought."
Carl wheels up a moment later. He's tired from acting as a barback for the night, but it's good to see him feel useful.
For far too long, he was furious at the world for stripping away his independence. He wanted it back so badly, even as I longed to do things for him, to make his life easier.
It's taken me a long time to see that sometimes the best gift we can give others is the gift of letting them live without our help.
He's the reason I built all this. The restaurant group, the empire, all of it. But looking at him now, I wonder if I've been building the wrong things for the wrong reasons.
"Good work tonight, you two," I tell them.
"Carl, Chase is gonna take you home. I'll see you later."
I leave them behind and go get the car. The drive to the office is quiet and still, but my veins are still surging with adrenaline from the work.
I raise a finger to my lip and taste lemon from the sauce. The office building is mostly dark when I arrive. Just security lights and the
red glow of exit signs.
My floor is empty except for the cleaning crew, who nod respectfully as I pass.
They know me by now—the CEO who works
late enough to overlap with the night shift, who always says good morning in Russian to Jovanni because she mentioned once that her grandson refused to speak anything but English to her and it was nice to hear her own language for a change.
My office door is closed, but I can see light seeping around the edges. I stop, key card in hand, suddenly uncertain. It could be Patricia, working late.
It could be building maintenance. It could be anyone. But somehow, I know it's not.
I slide the key card through the reader and push the door open.
————Erica Pov—————
I've already prepared the paperwork. We both knew you were always going
to say yes.
I read it again and, same as the first time, I want so badly to be angry.
But try as I might, I can't muster up the fury.
Whether I've spent it all or I never really had much in the first place is unclear to me, but it doesn't really make too much difference.
The only spark of defiance I have left is to choose when I sign my life away. If I'm pledging my not-quite-undying allegiance to LeBastard Simon in exchange for the sweet, sweet nectar of health insurance, I'm doing it on my terms.
Tonight.
Now.
While I still have the electricity of rebellion crackling through my veins. My access badge is still in my purse.
I never did leave it in my desk drawer like I'd written in my resignation letter. Some part of me must have known I wasn't really done with this place.
Or maybe it just knew that Andrew Simon
doesn't let people leave that easily. The whole train ride there, I'm antsy, one knee bouncing like a piston.
Security Guard Sila looks surprised when I swipe in at 10:28 P.M.
"Ms. Jones? Didn't you leave hours ago?"
"Forgot something in my office," I lie smoothly. "Won't be long."
He nods and waves me through. The elevator ride up feels longer than usual. My reflection gawks back at me in the polished steel doors.
I look tired. Reckless. Maybe a little unhinged.
All fairly accurate.