Chapter 8 #2
“Of course.” Grishnak nods, apparently satisfied.
“Though I should mention that I’m making final decisions by the end of the week.
For maximum impact, we’d want to move quickly.
” He stands, adjusting his jacket. Those gold chains clink again.
“Think it over, Chef Tan. This is the kind of opportunity that doesn’t come twice. ”
He turns to leave, then pauses. “Oh, and one more thing. I’d be happy to discuss the terms of your current arrangement with Mr. Greenfist here. Make sure you’re getting fair compensation for your talents.” His smile widens. “I’d hate to think you were being taken advantage of.”
That’s it. That’s the line.
I move before I’ve fully decided to, stepping around the bar with the focus that comes with pure adrenaline. “I think you should leave,” I say, keeping my voice level despite the rage building in my chest. “Now.”
Grishnak looks up, mild surprise crossing his face. “I’m in the middle of a conversation with Chef Tan,” he says, all polite confusion. “Perhaps you could—”
“No.” I cut him off, stepping closer. “You’re done talking to her. You’re done making offers. You’re done implying I’m taking advantage of her.” Each word comes out harder than the last, my control slipping. “You have five seconds to walk out that door before I remove you.”
His expression shifts. Not fear, exactly, but reassessment. He’s seeing something he didn’t expect, a calculation adjusting in real time. “This is unnecessary,” he says, his voice still smooth despite the tension in his shoulders. “I’m simply offering Chef Tan an opportunity.”
“You’re offering her a choice that’s not a choice,” I say. “And we’re done with that conversation.” I step closer, using my height to its full advantage. “Four seconds.”
He holds my gaze for a long moment, apparently weighing options.
Then he nods, once, and stands, adjusting his jacket with precise movements.
Those gold chains catch the light as he moves.
“This isn’t over,” he says, his voice still perfectly controlled.
“I’ll be in touch, Chef Tan. When you’ve had time to think clearly.
” He glances at me, something cold in his eyes. “Without interference.”
With that, he turns and walks out, moving with the unhurried confidence of someone who’s simply decided to end the conversation rather than someone who’s been threatened.
The door closes behind him with a soft click that somehow feels more final than a slam.
The cologne lingers, cloying and overwhelming.
The bar is suddenly, painfully quiet. The usual Friday noise suspended as everyone pretends not to have witnessed what just happened. I turn to Mei, relief and concern warring in my chest, only to find her watching me with an expression I can’t immediately name.
Not gratitude. Not relief. Something harder, more complicated.
“What the fuck was that?” she asks, her voice low enough that only I can hear it.
“I—” I start, then stop, thrown by the anger radiating from her. “He was threatening you. Using the debt to pressure you into—”
“I know exactly what he was doing,” she cuts in, each word precise.
“I’ve been dealing with men like Grishnak since culinary school.
Men who see something they want and decide they’re entitled to it.
Men who think my past, my failures, my debt make me something they can control.
” She takes a step closer, her eyes flashing.
“What I don’t understand is why you decided to speak for me.
To make decisions about what conversations I’m allowed to have.
To position yourself as my ‘protector’ like I’m some kind of damsel who needs saving. ”
The words hit like physical things, each one landing with weight. “That’s not—I wasn’t trying to—”
“You just did,” she says, and there’s hurt underneath the anger.
“You saw a threat and you removed it without asking if that’s what I wanted.
Without considering that I might have my own way of handling it, my own plan for dealing with men like Grishnak.
” She shakes her head, a strand of hair falling loose from her bun.
“I’ve spent my entire career being talked over, having decisions made for me, being treated like I’m not capable of handling my own business.
And now you—” She stops, apparently unable to find the words.
“I’m sorry,” I say, meaning it completely. “You’re right. I should have asked, should have given you the chance to handle it your way.” I run a hand through my hair, frustrated with myself. “But Mei, he was threatening you. Using the debt, your past—”
“I know what he was doing,” she says again, her voice slightly softer.
“I’ve been here before. Men see something they want.
My recipes, my platform, my body. And they decide they’re entitled to it.
They position themselves as protectors, as mentors, as the only thing standing between me and disaster.
” She meets my eyes directly, raw emotion in her expression.
“And then, when I don’t play along, when I try to make my own choices, they become the disaster. ”
The words settle between us, heavy with implication. This isn’t just about Grishnak, or even about what happened tonight. It’s about a pattern, a history of men who saw something they wanted and decided they were entitled to it. To her, to her work, to her choices.
“I’m not them,” I say, the words coming out more forcefully than I intended. “I would never—”
“But you just did,” she cuts in. “You saw a threat and you removed it without consulting me. You decided what was best for me without asking what I wanted.” She shakes her head. “That’s not partnership, Tovek. That’s not respect. That’s territory.”
She’s right. Completely, utterly right. I did exactly what she’s accusing me of.
Saw a threat and acted on it without considering her agency, her right to handle the situation her way.
I positioned myself as her protector, her shield, without stopping to think about what that might mean to someone with her history.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, because it’s all I have.
“You’re right. I should have asked, should have given you the chance to handle it.
” I meet her eyes directly. “But Mei, I’m not sorry I stopped him.
I’m not sorry I saw a threat to you and acted on it.
I’d do it again. Not because I think you can’t handle yourself, but because you matter to me. What happens to you matters to me.”
Her expression shifts. Surprise, maybe, or reassessment, before settling back to careful neutrality. “I need to finish service,” she says, her voice steady. “We can talk about this later.”
She turns and walks back to the kitchen, her movements precise, controlled. I watch her go, my chest tight with a mix of regret and complicated, painful pride. She’s right. I overstepped, took away her agency, positioned myself as something she never asked me to be.
But I’m also right. Grishnak is a threat, not just to her but to everything we’ve built. To the bar, to the kitchen, to the alchemy that happens when we work side by side. To the possibility of something more than colleagues or even friends.
And I’d do it again. In a heartbeat. Not because I think she needs protecting, but because what happens to her happens to me now. Because three weeks of working side by side, of building something real in this kitchen that isn’t mine, has shifted something fundamental in how I see the world.
It’s past two when I finally lock the front door, the last of the customers long gone.
The bar is quiet, just the soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional tick of the ancient cooling system.
I’ve spent the last three hours trying not to think about the argument, about the look on Mei’s face when she realized what I’d done.
About the way she said “That’s territory” like it was the worst thing I could have done.
The kitchen light is on. A soft glow from under the door that means someone’s still working. Probably Greta, doing the final inventory or setting up for tomorrow’s prep. I push the door open, a casual “Need help?” already forming on my lips, and freeze.
It’s not Greta. It’s Mei, standing at the stove with her back to me, her hair falling loose around her shoulders, an apron tied over the t-shirt and sleep pants she changed into after service.
She’s cooking. I can smell garlic and black pepper, the rich note of good beef hitting a hot wok.
Her movements are precise despite the late hour, each motion deliberate as she tosses the contents of the wok with a practiced flip of her wrist.
I should leave. Give her the space she clearly wants, the chance to process what happened without me hovering. Instead, I find myself stepping into the kitchen, pulling the door closed behind me with a soft click that makes her shoulders tense.
“I’m making black pepper beef,” she says without turning around. “There’s enough for two, if you want.”
It’s not quite forgiveness. Not even close. But it’s something. An opening, maybe, or at least a chance to talk.
“I’d like that,” I say, meaning it completely.
She nods, still focused on the wok. “Sit. It’s almost ready.”
I take a seat at the small table in the corner.
The one we use for family meal, for the quick breaks between lunch and dinner service.
From here, I can watch her work. The focus she brings to even the simplest task, the careful way she adjusts the heat, adds a splash of sauce, tastes and adjusts again.
There’s something about watching her cook that makes my chest tight.
Not just the skill, though there’s plenty of that, but the joy she takes in it, the way her entire body seems to light up when something turns out exactly right.