Wrangle Me Three Times (Coyote Glen #4)

Prologue

DELANEY

“What the fuck have you done to me?”

The words crack through the office like a whip.

I freeze, one hand still on the stainless-steel desk, the world narrowing to Marcus’s furious face. His cheeks are flushed, dark eyes wild, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle twitch.

My heart is pounding so hard it hurts.

“What are you talking about?” I manage, even though my throat is dry. “What did I—”

“This.” He snatches his phone off the desk and jabs at the screen. “This fucking disaster.”

He shoves it toward me.

The glare makes everything blur. Then the headline comes into focus.

Michelin Starred Maestro Marcus Hale Accused of “Blurred Boundaries” With Obsessed Sous Chef?

Underneath, a grainy photo of us outside his building. Too close. Too familiar.

Another shows us slipping through the back entrance. Below that, an even worse shot—my back against the walk-in door, his hand in my hair, mouths inches apart.

And the one that knocks the breath out of me: Me on my knees on the prep-kitchen tiles, laughing at something he’s saying, his hand tangled in my hair. The angle is terrible; it looks like something else entirely.

Enough to ruin me.

My own staff headshot is right there beside his. Delaney Rivers, sous chef.

I look younger in the photo. Fresh. Hopeful. My stomach turns.

“I didn’t…” My voice comes out thin. “I didn’t tell anyone. I swear, I—”

“Don’t insult me.” Marcus tosses the phone onto the desk. It skids across a stack of invoices and stops at the edge. “I told you from the very beginning: you keep your mouth shut. You keep this quiet. That was the deal.”

“I did.” My hands are shaking. “Marcus, I have never said anything. I didn’t tell my friends, I didn’t even tell my mother, I didn’t—”

“Then how,” he snarls, “did some bottom-feeding blogger end up with pictures of you on your knees in my kitchen?”

“I was not…” The rest of the sentence dies in my throat. There’s no point arguing about the angle of a photo. “Maybe someone from staff, maybe one of the line cooks—”

“Oh, of course.” His laugh is sharp and ugly. “It’s always someone else’s fault with you.”

I stare at him. “When has anything been my fault?”

“When you climbed into my bed,” he says coldly. “When you decided that fucking your boss was a good way to climb the ladder.”

The words hit harder than the headline.

“Climb the ladder? That’s not fair.” Heat stings the back of my eyes. “You’re the one who came onto me. You’re the one who kissed me first. You told me you—”

“I told you what you wanted to hear,” he cuts in. “Jeez, Delaney. You’re not a child. You knew what this was.”

The floor is tilting. “I thought this was real.”

“Real?” His lip curls. “You really think I’m going to blow up my career, my restaurants, because you got attached? Because you caught feelings like a fucking cold?”

My chest feels too tight. “So what, none of it meant anything? Sleeping together after service, talking all night, planning dishes, you telling me you—”

“Stop.” His voice slices through mine. “This isn’t about your feelings. This is about the fact that my name is on that door, and now I’m one headline away from losing everything I’ve worked for.”

He picks up his phone again and scrolls before shoving it back toward me. I see pulled quotes highlighted beneath the article.

Anonymous sources report a pattern of inappropriate behavior.

An unbalanced power dynamic in the kitchen.

Claims that the young sous chef became “fixated” on the star chef and blurred professional boundaries…

My own stomach flips. “I never said that.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he snaps. “What matters is optics.”

The kitchen hums beyond the closed office door. Fans, clatter, low voices—everything sounds muffled, far away. We’re supposed to be getting ready for lunch service.

Instead, my entire life is being dismantled in real time.

“What are they going to do?” I ask quietly. “HR? Ownership?”

He straightens his jacket, putting on his costume. The famous chef. Confident. In control.

“They already did it.”

The words land heavy. “Did what?”

“Had a meeting.” He ticks everything off as a list. “PR, legal, the restaurant group, the investors. You think they’re going to let this take me down? I have another location in the works. A cookbook. TV deals. This whole place exists because of me.”

“And because of the team,” I shoot back automatically, the way he’s always taught us to say in interviews.

His eyes flash. “Don’t be naive. They protect the asset. Me. So they needed a story. One that isn’t: beloved chef abuses underling. That’s bad for business.”

I can already see where this is going, but my brain refuses to accept it. “What story did they pick?”

“The one where a young employee misunderstood.” He says it clinically, as if he’s reading off a press release. “You got too attached. Overstepped. Made me uncomfortable. I, in my infinite generosity, feel bad that things were misinterpreted, but I’m willing to reflect and learn.”

I stare at him, bile burning the back of my throat. “That is not what happened, and you know it.”

“All that matters is that everyone else believes it happened that way.” He leans back against the desk, folding his arms. “HR will reach out. They’re going to offer you a few months’ pay, plus a nice NDA. You’ll sign it if you’re smart.”

“And if I’m not?” I ask, shaking. “If I tell the truth?”

“Then they’ll drag you through the mud.” His tone is almost bored.

“They’ll talk about your ‘unprofessional conduct.’ Your ‘emotional instability.’ They’ll have statements from staff about how you were inappropriate, how you made the environment tense.

And every restaurant that Googles you will see that article and your name and decide they don’t need the headache. ”

“So I’m screwed either way.”

“Not if you disappear,” he snarls. “Sign the NDA. Lay low. Get a job somewhere no one reads food blogs. Eventually, it blows over. You can tell whatever sad little story you want about burnout.”

My vision blurs. “My whole life is here. My entire career. I worked years for this.”

“And?” He lifts a brow. “Actions have consequences, Delaney.”

“Mine or yours?” I whisper.

“Both.”

Somehow, that makes it worse.

I grip the edge of the desk so hard my fingers ache. “I can’t afford to be unemployed. My rent—”

“You should’ve thought of that before you made yourself a liability. You are done here. Effective immediately.”

The words echo in my head. Done. Effective immediately.

“I’m fired,” I repeat slowly, like maybe if I hear it out loud, my brain will catch up.

“Yes.” He checks his watch. “You’ve got ten minutes to clear your station. Leave your keycard with the hostess. Security has been informed.”

“Security?” My laugh comes out high and jagged. “You make it sound like I’m going to steal the silverware.”

“Standard process. Don’t make a scene. Don’t talk to staff. HR will handle the rest.”

I can’t breathe.

“That’s it?” My voice cracks. “After two years? After everything?”

“Next time.” He straightens up. “Try not to screw your way up and then act shocked when the ladder disappears.”

He reaches for the doorknob.

I snap. “You told me you loved me.”

He stops with his hand on the door, shoulders tense. When he looks back at me, his eyes are flat. “I said what I had to say.”

“And the article?” I choke. “You’re just going to stand there and let them paint me as some obsessed little girl who imagined the whole thing?”

His mouth thins. “I already gave my statement. I suggest you stay off the internet for a while.”

He opens the door and steps out into the hum of the kitchen. The noise swallows him. The door swings shut behind him with a soft click that sounds, to me, like a slam.

I stand there, shaking, with the echo of his cologne and the article’s headline burning behind my eyes.

Then I move.

The kitchen goes quiet when I step out of the office.

It’s subtle. Pans still hiss, knives still hit cutting boards, but conversations stop. Heads dip. Eyes slide away. I’ve worked in enough toxic kitchens to recognize avoidance when I see it.

My station is exactly how I left it this morning. Tickets pinned in neat rows for tonight’s prep. My knives in their roll. My battered tasting spoons lined up like soldiers.

My hands move on autopilot.

I pack my knives. I stack containers. I strip my station of every sign I was ever here. The stainless steel looks cold and empty without my stuff.

“Delaney,” a soft voice whispers.

I turn. Rosa hovers a few feet away, her expression stricken. She glances toward the pass like she’s afraid someone will see her talking to me.

“This is bullshit,” she murmurs in Spanish, low enough only I can hear. “You know that, right?”

The lump in my throat gets bigger.

“Yeah,” I croak. “I know.”

Her eyes shine, but she turns back to her cutting board, shoulders tight. No one else says anything. Nobody looks at me for long.

I swallow the hurt. Giving them a show would just feed the narrative.

By the time I reach the end of the line, Emily is there, wringing her hands. The hostess dress code—black dress, red lipstick—looks wrong on her today. She looks like she came to a funeral.

“They told me to take your keycard,” she whispers, all ashamed.

“It’s okay.” My voice sounds like it’s coming from ten feet away. I pull the card from my pocket and drop it into her trembling hand. “Not your fault.”

Her eyes shine. “I’m really sorry.”

“Me too.”

I mean it more than she knows.

The back door looms ahead, the heavy metal one that leads to the alley. I’ve pushed through it a thousand times on breaks, late-night deliveries, quick sobs in the dark when service went sideways.

This time, when it slams shut behind me, the sound feels final.

The air in the alley is cold and smells of trash, grease, and city. I slide down the brick wall, my knife roll clutched to my chest, and I stop holding myself together.

The sob rips out of me, ugly and raw.

I cry for the job. For the kitchen. For the girl who moved to this city with two suitcases and a head full of recipes, convinced that if she just worked hard enough, she’d earn her place.

I cry for the idiot who believed a man like Marcus when he said I love you in the dark.

I cry because I am suddenly, terrifyingly aware that everything I built here is balanced on his story, not mine.

My phone won’t stop buzzing. Emails. Notifications. Group texts from my rock band friends, Wild Reverie. A message from my mother. News alerts.

I drag a shaking hand across my face and finally, stupidly, tap a notification.

A video opens. Marcus outside the restaurant, flanked by a PR woman. Cameras flash. A reporter shouts his name.

“I take full responsibility for not maintaining clearer professional boundaries,” he says solemnly. “I’m deeply sorry for any confusion or pain my actions may have caused.”

Confusion. Pain. Like this is an accident.

“Was there a sexual relationship?” someone calls.

He shakes his head with just the right amount of regret. “No. There was a mentorship that, unfortunately, was misinterpreted by a junior member of my team. I care deeply about all my staff, but sometimes people attach stories to professional relationships that just aren’t there.”

My stomach flips. “You bastard.”

He goes on, words polished and careful. We’re both victims in different ways. I’m taking time to reflect. This has been a learning experience.

He sounds wounded. Noble. Contrite.

He sounds nothing like the man who just told me I climbed into his bed to screw my way up.

The video ends on his pained face. The comment section is already a dumpster fire. Some people call him out. Others rush to defend him. A few speculate about me.

The girl. The nobody. The problem.

Probably some starstruck fangirl who couldn’t take no for an answer, one comment reads. Poor Marcus.

My phone buzzes again. This time it’s HR.

I almost let it go to voicemail. Then I think of rent. Of my empty station. Of Marcus’s threat, dressed up as advice.

I swipe to answer. “Hello?”

“Hi, Delaney,” a calm voice replies. “This is Rachel from HR. How are you holding up?”

How am I holding up?

I look at my knees, scraped from the alley floor. At my knife roll. At the back door that’s no longer mine to walk through.

“I’ve been better.”

“I’m sure.” She sighs gently. “I’m very sorry for the circumstances. I know this is difficult. I’d like to talk through your separation package and next steps, if that’s okay.”

She explains the offer in smooth, legal language. A couple of months' pay. Health insurance for the same amount of time. A mutual non-disparagement clause. A non-disclosure agreement that might as well read, You will never publicly contradict Marcus’s version of events.

“Just to be clear,” I say when she pauses, “if I sign this, I can’t tell anyone what actually happened.”

“You’re free to discuss your feelings in private settings. You just won’t be able to make public statements that could harm the company or its representatives.”

Representatives. Marcus.

“So if a journalist calls me?” I push. “If someone wants my side?”

“I’d strongly advise against speaking to the media,” she says. “It could jeopardize your severance, and frankly, it’s rarely helpful for anyone in these situations. The story cycle moves on quickly.”

Not for the girl in the headline, I think.

But my rent is due in ten days. There are no Michelin-star kitchens lining up to hire “the sous chef from the scandal article.”

I close my eyes. Pride is expensive. Survival is not optional.

“Email it. I’ll look it over.”

“Of course.” Her voice softens. “For what it’s worth, Delaney, I know this isn’t all on you.”

It lands like a crumb tossed to a starving person—not enough to fill me, just enough to remind me how hunger feels.

After the call, I sit there until my legs go numb. Then I stand, sling my bag over my shoulder, and walk out of the alley into the bright, indifferent city.

No one looks at me twice. No one knows my life just imploded.

Maybe Marcus is right.

Maybe no one will remember my name.

But where the hell does that leave me?