Chapter 23
Exposed
Sage
The morning comes harsh and unforgiving, sunlight cutting across the kitchen like it’s exposing every crack from last night. The headline burns across my screen before I’ve even finished my first sip of coffee.
Voss’s Mystery Roommate Revealed? Chef Linked to Surge Star.
My thumb trembles as I scroll. There it is—grainy, long-lens photos taken from across the street.
Me, carrying a grocery bag up the front steps.
Leo, a few steps behind me, holding the elevator door.
The captions twist it into something it’s not: Late-night visits?
Secret romance heating up in Surge star’s apartment complex.
A tight pressure coils low in my stomach, stealing my breath.
I scroll farther, but it only gets worse. The article digs through my online footprint like it’s a crime scene—restaurant tagged photos, a few old posts from culinary school, even a Yelp review I wrote three years ago. Every detail bent to fit their story. Their version of me.
I make the mistake of opening the comments.
The words slam into me like ice water.
Gold digger. Attention seeker. Another wannabe influencer.
Someone’s tagged my restaurant. Someone else has found my old headshot from a local magazine feature. I can’t breathe fast enough to keep up with the rush of humiliation crawling up my skin.
The coffee goes cold beside me. My hands shake so badly I set the mug down before I drop it.
The kitchen feels smaller. Too bright. Every sound—the hum of the fridge, the tick of the clock—sharpens until it’s unbearable.
I grab my phone again, refreshing the article like an idiot, hoping it’ll disappear.
But it doesn’t. It’s multiplying—different outlets copying it, reposting, twisting the headline into something worse each time.
Surge Star’s Secret Chef? Inside Leo Voss’s Private Life.
The walls feel like they’re closing in.
I shove the phone facedown on the counter, drag both hands through my hair, and let out a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a sob. My reflection in the window looks unfamiliar—tired eyes, pale skin, someone caught in a storm they didn’t start.
The phone buzzes again. A text from Mia: Is this true??? Another from my manager: Can you come in early today? We need to talk.
I don’t answer either.
For a second, I think about calling Leo. He probably already knows. He probably saw it before I did. But I can’t bring myself to hear whatever PR-friendly damage control speech his team is feeding him. Not yet. Not when I still feel like I’ve been skinned alive.
I stare at my phone one more time, at the headline glowing back at me.
And I can’t stop thinking how fast a life can unravel—from a single photo, a single lie, a single moment you didn’t see coming.
By the time I get to the restaurant, the morning rush is already in full swing—orders firing, pans hissing, the air thick with garlic and steam. Normally, the chaos is comforting, predictable. But today, it feels like a spotlight aimed straight at me.
I keep my head down, tying my apron, pretending not to notice the way the conversation quiets as I walk in. People still move around me, but the rhythm is off. Quieter. Stilted. Like everyone’s trying too hard to sound normal.
Mia gives me a sympathetic look from the line. “You okay?” she mouths.
I nod, but it’s a lie and we both know it.
Ten minutes into prep, I hear my name again. This time from somewhere near the dish pit, whispered but sharp enough to cut through the noise.
“... that’s her, right? The one with Voss?”
“Yeah, that’s her. The chef from that article.”
My knife slips, nicking the side of my finger. I curse under my breath, grab a towel, and press it to the cut. Blood blooms through the fabric, bright and fast. Perfect.
“Hey.” My manager, Ron, appears at my side. He’s always been steady—no nonsense, quick to smile—but his face is tight now, serious. “You got a sec?”
I nod again, throat dry.
He gestures toward the back hallway, away from the noise. I follow, heart pounding so loud I can barely hear the clatter of the kitchen anymore.
“I’m not mad,” Ron starts, hands shoved into his pockets. “And I know this isn’t your fault. But the press called this morning—twice. They’re asking about you. About him.”
My pulse spikes. “What did you say?”
“That I don’t comment on my staff’s personal lives,” he says quickly. “But Sage…” He sighs, the sound heavy. “We can’t have reporters showing up here. Customers getting spooked. Maybe take a few days off. Just until this blows over.”
The words hit harder than they should. “So I’m suspended?”
“No,” he says, gentler now. “It’s not punishment. It’s just…” His eyes meet mine. “Containment.”
I laugh, a shaky, humorless sound. “Containment. Got it.”
He winces. “I’ll pay out the shifts. Promise. You’ve done nothing wrong.”
But the damage is already done. The room tilts, the air suddenly too thin. I nod because it’s all I can manage.
“Thanks,” I murmur, even though it feels wrong to say it.
He hesitates before walking away. “For what it’s worth, I hope the guy’s worth all this noise.”
When he’s gone, I stand there for a long minute, the towel still pressed to my bleeding finger, the scent of onions filling the hall.
The world keeps moving. Plates clatter. Orders fire. But my life feels like it’s stopped.
I step outside into the alley, blinking against the sunlight. The city noise hits all at once—horns, chatter, the faint hum of someone’s radio from a passing car. I lean against the brick wall and finally pull out my phone.
My hands are trembling when I call Leo.
He picks up on the second ring. “Sage.” His voice is low, tight, like he’s been waiting for this call.
“I saw it,” I say. My throat feels raw. “All of it.”
“I know,” he answers. “Don’t say anything online. PR’s already spinning.”
I blink. “Spinning?”
“Yeah,” he says, and I can hear the tension in his voice. “We’re getting ahead of it. Controlling the story before it controls us.”
I press a hand to my chest, trying to hold myself steady. “You mean controlling me?”
He rakes a hand through his hair, frustration flashing across his face. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Feels like it.”
The silence between us stretches, tight and painful. For the first time, I realize how far apart we really are—even when he’s the only person who should understand.
That night, the apartment feels like it’s holding its breath.
The TV glows on mute, some mindless sports recap running through highlights that barely register. Leo sits on the couch in a T-shirt and sweats, scrolling through his phone, his jaw tight. His shoulders look heavier than usual—like the weight of every word written about us has settled there.
I move around the kitchen, trying to busy myself with dinner that neither of us will eat. The smell of sautéed garlic fills the air, but it doesn’t cut through the tension. It just hangs there, sharp and lingering.
He hasn’t said much since the call. Just short answers. Practical ones. I tried to fill the silence once or twice, asking about practice, about his coach—but each question hit a wall.
Now, he says quietly, “They’re running damage control. Issuing a statement that says we’re just friends.”
The words land like a punch to the gut. “Friends,” I echo.
He looks up finally, eyes dark, searching. “It’s not forever. Just until the noise dies down.”
I swallow hard. “So I’m your PR problem now.”
His mouth opens, then closes again. “That’s not fair.”
“Neither is this.” My voice cracks before I can stop it. “I didn’t ask for this, Leo. I didn’t sign up to be turned into a headline.”
He stands, rubbing the back of his neck. “You think I did? You think I wanted you dragged into this mess?”
“I think,” I say slowly, “that somewhere along the way, you started treating this like a game you can win. But I’m not part of your team strategy.”
The silence after that feels like an open wound. The only sound is the sizzle of forgotten food in the pan.
He finally turns off the stove, sets the spatula down, and meets my eyes. “I’m trying to protect you.”
“Then maybe stop treating me like something that needs protecting,” I whisper.
We stand there—two people in the same room, breathing the same air, both completely alone.
He reaches for me, hesitates, then pulls his hand back. “Eat something,” he says softly.
“I’m not hungry.”
Neither of us moves. The food burns.
And whatever we were building turns to smoke right alongside it.
The rest of the night drags by in silence.
The city hums outside the window, traffic and voices rising and fading, while inside the apartment it feels like someone’s turned the world to static.
Leo’s on one side of the couch, head tilted back, phone still in his hand.
I’m on the other, arms wrapped around my knees, staring at the muted news ticker rolling across the bottom of the screen.
Every headline feels like a countdown I can’t stop. Surge’s Voss Under Fire. Mystery Woman Named. Who Is Sage Winslow?
I want to tell him to shut it off. I want to tell him to say something. Anything.
Instead, I whisper, “Do you think this will ruin me?”
His eyes flick toward me, guilt flashing quick before he looks away. “No one’s going to ruin you.”
The certainty in his voice doesn’t reach his eyes.
The tension between us tightens again—so fragile it could snap with one wrong word. I fold my arms tighter, trying to keep my voice steady. “You don’t get it. I worked for years to be taken seriously. And now, because of some stupid photo, I’m a headline. A distraction.”
He exhales slowly, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “It’ll pass.”
“How?” I ask. “When the internet never forgets?”
He doesn’t have an answer. Just a long pause that stretches until it hurts.
Finally, he says, “You’re stronger than they think.”
I shake my head. “Then why do I feel like I’m disappearing?”
He reaches over this time, his hand brushing mine—a small, hesitant touch. “Because right now,” he says, voice low, “we’re both losing pieces of ourselves to something we can’t control.”
His words should comfort me, but they don’t. They just make the truth sink deeper.
Neither of us is winning this fight.
Before I can say anything else, both our phones buzz on the table, lighting up at the same time. The sound slices through the quiet.
I grab mine first.
A new Puck Whisperer alert.
Chef Winslow: Hockey’s Biggest Distraction?
Byline: Grayson Locke.
My pulse spikes. I look at Leo. His face goes still as he reads the same headline.
Our eyes meet.
And I realize—this isn’t just exposure anymore.
It’s a hit.