31. Saint #2
I set the knife down, wiping my hands on my apron. Through the kitchen window, I can see table fifteen. Brenda sits alone, perfectly composed in a royal blue blazer, scrolling through her phone with the casual indifference of someone who’s never doubted her place in the world.
She’s not here for the food.
“Take over the pass,” I tell Eddie.
Eddie’s eyebrows lift halfway to his hairline, but he nods and takes my place. The kitchen’s rhythm doesn’t falter as I untie my apron and fold it.
I’m through the doors before I can change my mind. The dining room’s ambient chatter dips as I emerge. Phones discreetly angle in my direction, catching the rare sighting.
Brenda doesn’t look up as I approach, her manicured finger scrolling through something on her screen. Only when my shadow falls across her table does she finally acknowledge me.
“Chef Toussaint.” She sets her phone face down. “Your duck is extraordinary.”
“What do you want, Ms. Chu?”
She gestures to the empty chair across from her. “Five minutes of your time.”
I remain standing. “I’m in the middle of service.”
“Yet here you are.” She takes a deliberate sip of wine. “You should know I’m not typically this accommodating. I canceled my flight to be here.”
“Is there a point to this conversation?”
Brenda studies me with the skillful eye of someone who assesses value for a living. “She deleted the video.”
“Yeah, I heard.”
“Do you know what that cost her?” She leans forward, voice dropping. “Three brand deals worth five figures. A cookbook offer. And about ten thousand followers who think she’s ghosting them again.”
My gut twists. “And?”
“And she’s miserable.”
Brenda’s smile drops, revealing genuine concern beneath her polished exterior.
“She’s not the only one,” I mutter, then immediately regret the admission.
Brenda’s eyes sharpen like she’s just spotted prey in tall grass. “Interesting.”
She pulls her phone back up, taps the screen a few times, then slides it across the table. “Look at this. ”
I exhale loudly, then end up taking the seat across from her and reaching for the phone.
Reluctantly, my gaze lands on a video of Wrenley in her kitchen. She’s laughing, sunlight catching in her hair as she holds up a mug that says “I’d rather be sleeping.” The caption comically reads: How to pretend you’re a morning person when you’re actually dead inside.
Yet she looks radiant. Healthy. Happy.
I swipe to the next video. Wrenley at the lake, skipping stones with perfect form. Her wide smile is genuine as she celebrates a five-skip throw. The comments below are filled with heart emoji and variations of she’s back!
“She seems fine to me,” I say, handing the phone back.
Brenda keeps her phone raised, the paused video of Wrenley jumping in triumph angled at me. “That’s because she’s exceptionally good at her job. Millions of people think she’s thriving. The magic of good content creation.”
I clench, then unclench my jaw. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Do you know what she does before filming these?” Brenda asks, voice deceptively casual.
I don’t answer.
“She sits on her bathroom floor for twenty minutes, practicing her smile in the mirror.” Brenda leans forward, her free hand tapping against the stem of her wineglass.
The revelation punches through me like a fist. I picture Wrenley, my vibrant, chaotic Wrenley, rehearsing happiness in a mirror.
“She used to get up, film, edit, and post, all by 8 a.m.,” Brenda continues, swirling her wine. “When she was in LA, New York, anywhere with a decent following. Now she spends hours on a single video. She keeps deleting takes because her smile doesn’t look genuine. ”
“You think that’s my fault?” I ask, my voice scraping against my vocal cords.
She takes a sip, then sets down her glass. “I think you both made choices. But I also think you should know something about her that you clearly don’t understand.”
Brenda leans forward. “I’ve been her agent for two years.
I’ve seen her through stalkers, death threats, breakdowns, you name it.
But I’ve never seen her quit. Not once. And after what happened with her attacker, most people would’ve disappeared forever.
But after taking time to mentally recover, Wrenley refused. Said her community mattered too much.”
I shift uncomfortably, eyes darting toward the kitchen where Eddie’s watching me like I’ve grown a second head, because there’s no way I’m still entertaining someone in the dining room when I’d usually drop a curt reply and then dip.
“She was doing well before Falcon Haven, I won’t lie,” Brenda continues. “But thriving? Not until she came here.”
“If this is some kind of guilt trip?—”
“This isn’t about guilt.” Brenda cuts a perfect bite of duck and chews thoughtfully before swallowing. “She started sleeping through the night. Cooking actual meals instead of eating protein bars. Making friends outside of social media.”
Brenda pins me with her gaze.
“And I’ve read about you, too, Chef Daddy. I know the recluse you claim to be, yet you let her into your home, put your daughter in her care, and your restaurant’s ratings are up fifteen percent since she came into the picture.”
I narrow my eyes. “If you’ve researched me the way you say you have, you’d know I don’t give a shit about ratings. It’s why I’m in a town with a population below one thousand.”
“Yet your C’est Trois is humming again. Your staff says you were almost pleasant for the last few weeks there.” Brenda plays with her fork. “Funny coincidence, that timeline.”
“Then I’ll fire them all tomorrow.”
Brenda laughs. “You’re not actually the tyrant you claim to be. Look at them.”
I do. My team works in perfect synchronicity, even without my hovering. Eddie’s assisting the expo calling orders with confidence, the line cooks responding with their expert training (mine). But they’re fine without me. Better, maybe.
“She helped you, too,” Brenda says beside me. “That’s what no one’s talking about. Everyone’s so focused on how you affect her that they’re missing how she affects you.”
I’m too stubborn to reply, so I grunt a noncommital response instead.
“Right.” Brenda laughs under her breath. “It’s pure luck that you’re no longer pale with bags under your eyes and your restaurant is currently filled with people who came to see the man behind the viral hands.”
“That’s not why I cook,” I snap, unable to stop myself. “I don’t do this for views or likes or whatever the fuck else drives people to document their entire existence online.”
“No?” Brenda raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “You do it because you love it. And when was the last time you actually loved it, Chef, rather than going through the motions? Before or after Wrenley?”
Her question hits me like a pan to the face.
My resulting silence must be answer enough, because Brenda’s expression relaxes into something almost sympathetic.
“Look, I’m not here to play therapist. I’m here because I care about my client, and because, against my better professional judgment, I think you two might actually be good for each other.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It never is.” She dabs her napkin at the corner of her mouth.
“But here’s what I know about Wrenley Morgan.
She was falling apart before she came here.
Completely unraveling. And then she met you and your daughter, and suddenly, she didn’t feel like she needed to cling to her platform so hard.
She started living outside of it and finding true happiness.
Now, that’s not necessarily good for me , but I love that girl, and I love that she found her place in this world.
I wouldn’t even ask her to monetize it, which goes against all my principles.
It would be hers alone. I understand that about her now. ”
I’m listening to Brenda’s every word, but I’m staring through the small windows of the kitchen doors, where Eddie is expediting with surprising competence. “I have to protect Ivy.”
“From what, exactly? Being happy? Having someone who cares about her?” Brenda shrugs. “From what I’ve seen, Wrenley loves that little girl almost as much as she loves you.”
Brenda’s phone vibrates on the table, a string of notifications lighting up the screen. “Listen, I have to actually make my flight this time because I have plenty of other stubborn-ass clients to talk off cliffs.”
She rises, hooking her designer purse. “Wrenley’s not a risk, Saint. She’s a choice. And you’re allowed to choose her.”
With that, Brenda throws a wad of hundreds on the table and winks. “Keep the change. And the advice.”
I bite down on the inside of my cheek, preventing the annoyed growl from breathing fire through my nostrils, and watch her leave until I start to feel stupid just sitting in the middle of my dining room, scowling.
Back in the kitchen, I work like a man possessed.
The staff leaves me alone, either out of respect or fear.
I send out the last orders myself, wipe down every surface, then keep going, starting with breaking down boxes, scrubbing out the walk-in, and reorganizing the dry goods until my hands are slick with sweat and the sting of lemon degreaser.
When it’s finally quiet, I stand in the middle of the kitchen and try to remember what it felt like to care about anything other than keeping my head above water.
The answer is, I can’t remember. It’s buried under years of making sure Ivy had a father who didn’t fall apart every time she scraped her knee or woke up screaming in the dark. I built my life like a bomb shelter, every wall reinforced, every entrance and exit accounted for.
I thought I was doing it for her, but the longer I stand in the silent kitchen, the more I wonder if I was ever protecting anyone but myself.