Chapter 39
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Delaney
The café smells wrong.
Not bad, just wrong. Too bright. Too clean.
I almost turn around.
I should.
The number has been sitting heavy in my pocket all morning, a quiet weight I can’t ignore. I told myself this wasn’t a commitment. Just information. Just proof that the past doesn’t get to decide things for me anymore.
I scan the room once.
Twice.
And then my lungs forget how to work.
It’s not dramatic at first. It’s worse than that. It’s quiet. Sudden. Like someone flipped a switch and my body just… stopped cooperating. Air goes thin. My chest locks. For a split second, I’m genuinely confused about how breathing is supposed to happen.
He’s sitting near the window.
Posture perfect. One ankle crossed over his knee as if the space was arranged for him personally.
Dark hair cut too precisely. Jacket tailored within an inch of its life.
Hands folded loosely, patient, composed, like he’s waiting for a reservation instead of the woman whose life he detonated and walked away from without a backward glance.
Marcus.
My vision tunnels.
The room tilts, hard enough that I grab the back of a chair to steady myself, fingers numb, skin buzzing like I touched a live wire. My ears ring. Blood roars. Every rational thought scatters at once.
How did I not see this coming?
The shame hits right on the heels of the fear.
Fool. Idiot. Of course it’s him. Of course the vague number, the polite text, the refusal to name the kitchen was a trap.
Why didn’t I see it? Just because he used another number…
I still should have guessed. I should have asked Savannah what the man who asked for me looked like.
Of course he wouldn’t let me disappear quietly.
I should have known better.
For half a second, I’m not here at all.
I’m back in his office, one hand braced on a stainless-steel desk, the metal cold enough to bite. His face is red with fury, eyes wild, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jump as he shoves his phone toward me.
What the fuck have you done to me?
My heart slams against my ribs so hard it hurts, exactly like it did then. I can almost feel the edge of the desk digging into my palm, the way my throat closed when the headline came into focus.
Obsessed Sous Chef.
The word flashes behind my eyes, a warning label branded into my skull.
I taste metal.
The room wobbles again, panic rising fast and sharp, my body screaming get out, get out, get out while my brain scrambles to catch up.
I turn.
I don’t think.
I just move.
“Delaney.”
His voice cuts through the café. Smooth, warm, confident enough to sound like truth.
I’m already halfway to the door when his chair scrapes back.
“Wait.”
I don’t.
“Delaney, please. Just… just wait.”
His tone shifts. Softens. Sounds hurt.
I stop and hate myself for it.
I turn slowly, facing something that might lunge if I move too fast.
“What are you doing here?”
My voice sounds far away. Like it belongs to someone braver.
He smiles. Damn. That smile. Familiar enough to ache.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
My stomach twists. “You said this was about a job.”
“It is,” he says quickly. “It really is. Just… not the way you think.”
I take a step back. “You lied.”
“I improvised,” he corrects gently, smoothing over a misunderstanding instead of reopening a wound. “I needed to see you.”
I needed to see you.
I hear another version of his voice layered over this one.
I told you what you wanted to hear.
“How did you find me?”
He hesitates just long enough to look thoughtful. “A colleague mentioned you. Instagram, actually. Someone tagged a photo. You were in the background. I thought I was imagining it at first.”
My skin crawls.
“So you followed me.”
“I checked,” he says. “There’s a difference.”
I shake my head. “You can’t just show up like this.”
“I missed you,” he says.
There it is.
The line that used to undo me.
My brain flashes to another moment… late night in the prep kitchen, burners still warm, his hand in my hair while he murmured how indispensable I was. How talented. How different.
You really think I’m going to blow up my career because you got attached?
“I worried,” he continues now. “You disappeared. No goodbye. Do you have any idea what that did to me?”
I stare at him.
At the man who stood in his office and told me my life was collateral damage. At the man who watched me pack my knives while the kitchen went quiet around me.
“I left,” I say slowly. “Because you kicked me out. You destroyed my career. You made sure I wouldn’t be able to talk to you again.”
He flinches. “That’s not fair.”
“It’s accurate.”
“I protected the restaurant,” he says immediately. “I protected you. You were spiraling, Delaney. People were talking. I stepped in.”
“You threw me under the bus,” I snap, pulse roaring in my ears. “You let them believe I was unstable. That I imagined everything.”
“You couldn’t handle the pressure,” he says softly.
The words slide in like a blade.
For a split second, I’m back in the alley, sitting on the cold concrete with my knife roll clutched to my chest, watching him on my phone telling reporters how deeply sorry he was for the confusion.
Anger rises, cleaner this time.
“I was burned out,” I say. “I was exhausted and isolated and sleeping four hours a night because you convinced me that if I slowed down, I’d be replaced.”
He opens his mouth.
“I’m not finished.”
That stops him.
“I gave everything to that kitchen,” I continue. “To you. And when it became inconvenient, you let me fall.”
He exhales sharply. “I made a necessary call.”
“You made yourself blameless.”
“You’re rewriting history.”
“No,” I say. “I’m remembering it clearly.”
Frustration flickers behind his eyes. Then the charm clicks back into place, smooth and practiced.
“You don’t belong here,” he says, gesturing vaguely around us. “Cooking for a ranch? Here in this small, nothing town? You’re wasting yourself.”
The words land hard.
I think of Sadie perched on the counter, asking if pancakes can have faces. Of Boone’s quiet steadiness. Of Silas admitting he’s scared. Of Caleb standing in a doorway, wanting clarity but not demanding it.
“Don’t,” I say.
“You’re brilliant,” Marcus presses. “You were meant for more than this. Come back. I can make things right. I’ll handle the press. The industry’s already forgotten the noise.”
I laugh, breathless. “You think that’s the problem?”
“What else would it be?”
“That you still think you get to decide what more looks like for me.”
His expression tightens. “You’re emotional right now.”
There it is.
The same word he used in the office. The same dismissal dressed up as concern.
“I’m done,” I say.
“Delaney—”
“I said I’m done.”
I turn toward the door, legs shaking now.
“Think about it!” he calls after me. “You’re throwing away everything you worked for!”
I stop, hand on the handle.
Images flash. My station stripped bare, my keycard dropped into Emily’s shaking hand, the kitchen door closing behind me like a sentence.
Slowly, I turn back.
“No,” I shoot back. “I’m keeping it.”
His face goes slack with surprise.
I don’t wait.
I push outside into the cold air, and it hits me like freedom and grief all at once. I walk. Then jog. Then I’m running down the sidewalk like the town might catch me if I stop.
My boots hit the pavement too hard, too fast. My breath comes in jagged pulls that don’t quite reach my lungs, panic still clawing at my ribs even though I’m away from him. My hands shake. My vision blurs at the edges.
A tear slips free.
Then another.
They track down my cheeks, hot and humiliating, blurring the street into color and light.
I swipe at them with the heel of my hand, angry at myself, furious that he still has this kind of access to me.
That he can reach across time and cities and almost pull me back into that small, broken version of myself.
My throat tightens.
I press my lips together, but it doesn’t help. The sob catches anyway, ripping through my chest like it’s been waiting for permission. More tears follow, streaking down unchecked, my vision dissolving until everything is just shapes and motion.
I cry for the girl who believed him.
For the woman who thought she was past this.
For the foolish hope that the past would stay buried if I didn’t look at it too closely.