Epilogue
EPILOGUE
brANDON
S team curls around my face as I work the line, the familiar chaos of Giovanni’s kitchen, my kitchen now, thrumming through my veins. The rhythmic clang of pots, the sizzle of meat hitting hot pans—fucking beautiful.
“Fire two lamb, one scallop!” I call out.
My team moves like a well-oiled machine, weeks of training paying off in their synchronized dance. See Dad? I can run a kitchen. I can lead a team.
Through the pass, I catch glimpses of the packed dining room. Critics, friends, family—all here to see if Brandon Milton can actually pull this shit off. Naomi sits at the bar with Blake, the crostini I made her disappearing bite by bite.
“Yo.” Sebastian materializes beside me. “Table four is losing their minds over the lamb.”
“Yeah?” I add a drizzle of balsamic over the salad. “Then get the fuck out of my kitchen unless you’re planning to work.”
He grins, backing away. “Just wait till you see what they write tomorrow.”
Before I can tell him where to shove tomorrow’s reviews, Elijah appears. Christ, it’s like a family reunion in my kitchen.
“I’m working here guys.” I slide the plate onto the counter.
Elijah leans against the steel, watching. “The scallops were perfect.”
“Thanks.” I adjust the heat under a pan. “Now move your ass before you fuck up my flow.”
“Father would be proud.”
My knife halts mid-chop. The words settle somewhere deep in my chest, not as painful as they once were. “Yeah.” I look up at the framed apron. “Maybe he would.”
Every dish that leaves my kitchen tonight is a goodbye. The osso buco, perfectly tender like Mom used to make. The bread, crusty and aromatic, worthy of that Paris bistro Dad never shut up about. The scallops, seared exactly how he liked them.
This is for you, Dad. Everything I wanted you to taste. Everything I wanted to prove.
“Brandon—”
“Chef.” I point my knife at him. “In here, it’s Chef.”
A smile tugs at his mouth. “Chef, then.”
“Chef.” Alex appears, fidgeting with his apron. “That guy you showed us the photo of? Pretty sure he just walked in.”
“David Smith?”
“He’s asking for a table.”
They didn’t talk since she quit. My eyes snap to Naomi through the pass. Her plate’s empty. Not a single bite left. That shouldn’t make my chest feel tight, but it does. Every time. Because I know what it means. That this isn’t just her liking the food. It’s her choosing to stay. To let herself have this.
She catches me staring and rolls her eyes like I’m the one being weird. Like she doesn’t realize what it means that she’s actually eating.
“Chef?” Alex shifts his weight.
“Tell Marco to watch the line. And bring?—”
Too late. Naomi’s spine goes rigid, her wine glass frozen halfway to her lips.
I’m halfway to ripping off my apron when Blake gives me one sharp shake of her head.
My fingers clench in the fabric. Blake’s right. Naomi isn’t that broken girl anymore.
“Marco,” I bark, turning back to the line. “Fire me a lamb. Medium rare. And that burrata starter Naomi likes.”
David approaches Naomi, and she meets his eyes, chin lifted. No trembling, no fidgeting with her dress. Just pure steel in her spine as she nods once, gesturing to an empty table.
“Chef.” Marco’s voice snaps me back. “The lamb’s ready.”
I plate it myself, adding the perfect drizzle of sauce and a sprig of fresh herbs. Everything has to be perfect. Not for David Smith’s approval, fuck that, but for Naomi to watch her father eat at her table in her restaurant, knowing she got here without him.
“Send this to Mr. Smith’s table.” I hand the plate to Alex. “And the burrata after.”
Elijah’s still hovering. “You’re different in here.”
“And you’re staring,” Sebastian appears at my elbow with two glasses of scotch.
“I’m working.” I take the glass anyway. “And you’re still in my fucking kitchen.”
I sneak another glance at David’s table. He takes his first bite, eyebrows lifting slightly. Then—his fork hesitates, just for a second. Like he wasn’t expecting to like it. Like it almost… hurts to.
“It’s almost ten. Kitchen’s closed.” Sebastian nods toward the dining room. “And they’re fine. She’s fine.”
Yeah. She is.
I down the scotch and hand the glass back to Sebastian. “Get out of my kitchen. Both of you.”
They finally leave, and after another hour, I turn back to my team. “Good work tonight. Start breaking down the line.”
Through the pass, I watch David stand, shaking Naomi’s hand. Something passes between them, not warmth exactly, but maybe understanding.
Her shoulders drop slightly, and Blake is right by her side, whispering something that makes Naomi laugh.
“Chef.” Marco’s voice pulls me back. “We’re almost done here.”
I nod, surveying the kitchen. My kitchen. Clean steel gleaming under the lights, everything in its place. My mother’s apron framed on the wall.
“Go home.” I clap Marco on the shoulder. “You killed it tonight.”
The staff filters out while I do final checks. When I emerge from the kitchen, Naomi’s alone at the bar, twirling an empty wine glass.
“Hey.” I slide onto the stool next to her.
“Hey yourself, Chef.” She kisses me softly. “The lamb was perfect.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhmm.” Her finger traces my jaw. “Though I think you sent my father an extra course.”
“Wanted to make sure he tried everything.”
Her eyes soften. “Thank you. For letting me handle it.”
“You didn’t need me.” I catch her hand, pressing my lips to her palm. “You good?”
“Getting there.” She slides closer, thigh pressing against mine. “You?”
“Getting there, too.”
The empty restaurant wraps around us like a cocoon, and the kitchen timer dings, probably Marco’s forgetful ass, but I don’t rush to check it.
“Take me home?” Naomi whispers against my lips.
Home. The word settles deep in my chest, heavier than it should be. Because it’s not just about where we sleep. It’s the space between us when we wake up. The sound of her laughter in my kitchen. The way she steals my shirts and leaves her heels next to my sneakers.
Home isn’t a place. It’s her.
“Yeah, cupcake.” I stand, pulling her up with me. “Let’s go home.”
Goodbye, Dad.