20. Valentina
— ? —
Valentina
The restaurant doesn’t let me forget the opening.
By Tuesday every server has seen the photos - me on Eric’s arm in the black dress, his hand on my waist, the two of us looking like the exact rumor they already believed. Nobody says gold-digger to my face. They don’t have to. The silence when I walk into the break room is loud enough.
Sophia thrives in it.
She doesn’t hide anymore. She assigns my tables to other people “by accident.” Corrects me in front of customers.
Laughs too loudly whenever Eric’s name comes up.
And every time he walks through the door, she materializes like she was summoned - hair perfect, smile sharp, body angled toward him like a claim.
Marianna mutters into the espresso machine, “If she touches his arm one more time I’m going to season her coffee with dish soap.”
“Don’t,” I say. “She’s not worth the write-up.”
But my jaw aches from clenching.
I’m restocking glasses when I hear it - two voices near the dish pit, low and mean.
“She really showed up to his opening like she belongs there.”
“Sophia said it won’t last. Said she’s just the flavor of the month. He gets bored. He always does.”
“Sophia would know.”
“She said she ‘fed the story’ a little. You know, the married thing. The motel. Made sure the right people had the right details. Said if the internet was going to talk, it might as well talk accurately.”
My hands go still on the rack.
“No way.”
“That’s what she told Dana after shift. Laughing about it. Said someone had to protect Eric from a walking lawsuit in a tight uniform.”
The tray in my hands suddenly feels too heavy.
I don’t remember putting it down. I don’t remember walking. I just end up in front of Marianna by the service station, pulse hammering in my throat.
“It was her,” I say.
Marianna looks up. “What?”
“Sophia. The leak. The first story. The married headlines. The timeline. She fed it.”
Marianna’s face hardens so fast it almost scares me. “You’re sure?”
“She bragged about it.”
“That-” Marianna cuts herself off, glances around, then leans in. “Okay. Then we don’t do anything stupid on the floor. You want her gone, we do it clean.”
“I’m not asking you to do anything.” My voice holds, steadier than I am. “I just needed to know I wasn’t crazy.”
Before she can answer, the front-of-house energy shifts. Eric walks in.
Suit. Open collar. That controlled scan of the room he always does until he finds me. Something in my chest kicks - last night’s wine cellar still living under my skin, his knuckles against lace, Camille’s hand on his arm, my own ugly jealousy.
He starts toward me.
Sophia gets there first.
Of course she does.
She’s in a dress too nice for the lunch shift, hair glossy, perfume announcing her before she speaks. She steps into his path and puts her hand on his forearm like she’s done it a hundred times. Slow. Familiar. Possessive.
“Eric, perfect timing. I wanted to go over the new wine pairings before service. I stayed late on them for you.”
Her fingers stroke once.
The same hot black thing that rose in me with Camille rises again - sharper now, because this isn’t a socialite from his past. This is the woman who sold my life to strangers for sport.
Eric gently removes her hand. “Not now.”
“It’ll only take a minute.” Sophia’s eyes flick to me, bright with fake sweetness. “Unless you’re tied up with personal matters again. I know how distracting those can be.”
The restaurant noise seems to recede.
I should let him handle it. I should be professional. I should wait.
I step forward instead.
“Sophia,” I say, pleasant enough that nearby servers glance over. “I need a word. Privately.”
Her smile falters. “I’m speaking with Eric.”
“And now you’re speaking with me.” I look at him. “Give us a minute.”
Eric studies my face - reads whatever is there - and nods once. “I’ll be in the office.”
He leaves. Not far. Close enough to intervene. Far enough to let me own it.
Sophia follows me into the back hallway with her arms crossed, already sneering. “If this is about the schedule-”
“It’s about the story you sold.”
Silence.
For half a second her mask slips. Then she laughs, light and ugly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes you do. The married headlines. The motel. The timeline of when I started. The photos they shouldn’t have had so fast.” I take one step closer. “You bragged about feeding it. So spare me the performance.”
Her chin lifts. “You can’t prove anything.”
“I don’t need a courtroom. I need you to hear me.” My voice stays low, controlled, cold. “I didn’t take anything from you. He was never yours. He saw through you a long time ago - the clients, the act, the way you only wanted him when he looked like money.”
Blood drains from her face.
“You don’t get to punish me because he never chose you,” I continue.
“You don’t get to turn my life into content because you’re angry you lost a game you were never winning.
Stay away from me. Stay away from him. And if another ‘anonymous tip’ appears with my name on it, I won’t have a private conversation in a hallway.
I’ll make sure every manager in this city knows exactly how you operate. ”
Sophia’s mouth trembles, then hardens. “You think you’re permanent. You’re a phase. A guilt project with good legs. When he’s done, you’ll be right back where you started - and I’ll still be here.”
“No,” I say softly. “You won’t.”
I walk past her before she can answer. My hands are shaking, but I don’t let her see it. Not until I turn the corner.
Eric is waiting outside the office, exactly where he said he’d be.
“What happened?”
“Sophia happened.” I meet his eyes. “She was the leak. The first one. Maybe more.”
His expression goes lethal so fast it almost scares me. “You’re certain.”
“She all but confessed. And she’d been bragging to staff.”
He’s already moving, like he’s going to end her employment in the next ten seconds.
I stop him with a hand on his chest.
“No.”
He looks down at my hand, then at my face. “Valentina-”
“I handled her.” The words matter. I need them to matter. “I don’t need you to burn the building down every time someone comes for me. I need you to tell me the truth. All of it. About her.”
His jaw works. For a moment I think he’ll argue. Then he exhales and tips his head toward the office.
“Inside.”
The door shuts. The noise of the restaurant dulls.
Eric stands with his back to the desk, hands braced on the edge, like he’s bracing for his own verdict.
“She tried to seduce me about a year ago,” he says.
No polish. No spin. “I was lonely. Careless. I let it go further than it should have - attention, drinks after close, the kind of ambiguity a smarter man doesn’t allow.
I never dated her. Never slept with her. But I let her believe it was possible.”
I wait.
“Then I saw her with clients. Rich ones. The second I left the room, she became someone else. When I walked back in, she performed devotion.” His mouth twists.
“I realized she didn’t want me. She wanted the access.
The money. The version of my life she could walk into on someone else’s arm if not mine. ”
“So you went cold.”
“Yes. And I still didn’t fire her. She’d been here for years, and I told myself ending it quietly was cleaner than turning it into a scandal.” He looks at me, eyes hard with self-disgust. “That was ego dressed up as fairness. It left her close enough to hurt you. I’m sorry.”
The apology lands differently than I expect. Not performative. Tired. Real.
I think of Camille’s hand on his sleeve. Sophia’s fingers stroking his arm. The way women look at him like a prize with a pulse. The way he looked at me in the wine cellar like I was the only one in the room who could ruin him.
“You’re not a player,” I say slowly. “You got burned. And then you built a wall and called it standards.”
“Does that change anything?”
I could say yes. I could say no. Both would be incomplete.
“It changes how I see her,” I say. “Not how I see you.” A beat. “But if she comes for me again, I won’t ask you to stay out of it twice.”
Something dark and pleased moves through his expression.
“Is that you giving me permission?”
“That’s me telling you I fight first.” I hold his gaze. “You don’t get to rescue me from every knife. You get to stand next to me when I pull it out.”
He’s quiet for a long second. Then:
“Fire her.”
I blink. “What?”
“You said if she came for you again-”
“I handled the conversation. I didn’t ask for her job. I don’t want blood, Eric. I want boundaries. That’s all.”
His jaw works. For a moment I think he’ll argue. Then he exhales, slow, like he’s forcing the violence back down.
“If she does it again-”
“Then we deal with it again.” I hold his gaze. “But I won’t ask you to ruin someone because they hate me. That’s not who I am. Don’t make me into that.”
Something in his expression shifts - frustration, respect, heat, all tangled.
“Okay,” he says finally. Quiet. Rough.