I stare at the message long enough for Julien to notice.
He says, “Chef?”
I type before he can make the word heavier.
Damien: I’m available if you have additional questions for the piece.
The response is formal, deliberate, and faintly humiliating the moment I send it. Her reply comes less than a minute later.
Serena: I’ll come by at 3:00.
I put the phone down and return to the station.
At 3:00, the kitchen is between lunch prep and dinner setup, quiet in the way a restaurant is quiet only when it is gathering itself. The room smells of herbs, stock, metal, and heat waiting to be used. I’m at my station when the side door opens.
Serena steps in wearing a fitted cream dress, and the expression of a woman who has come here with purpose. Her hair is tousled in waves and falling on her shoulders—she looks composed.
“Hi,” she says.
“Serena,” I say.
She pauses at the tone.
“I wanted to talk to you,” she says.
“I’m a bit busy.”
Her brows lift slightly. “I can see that.”
“It is going to be a full service tonight. There is prep to finish.”
“Okay,” she says, but the word is cautious now, not retreating.
“Did something happen?”
“No.” I say the word firmly, and can feel the chunks rise in my throat.
She looks at the counter, then back at me.
“That was very convincing.”
I should let the sarcasm pass. Usually, I would return it cleanly and enjoy the way she sharpens in response. Instead, the image from last night cuts through me again, and irritation arrives before discipline can stop it.
“You don’t need to pretend, Serena,” I say.
Her face stills. “Pretend what?”
“That you came here to be cordial.”
She blinks once. “Excuse me?”
I set down the spoon in my hand with more control than the moment deserves.
“If this is about the article, ask your questions. If it is about something else, perhaps you should save the performance for your boyfriend.”
The silence after that is immediate and absolute. Serena looks at me as if I have spoken in another language.
“My…boyfriend?”