Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ben opened the email on his phone as he walked up the narrow staircase to his flat, his thumb scrolling automatically.
Buonasera from Firenze! Franco had written at the top, and Ben could hear the sing-song brightness in his voice.
The rest was a neat little list: the apartment near Santa Croce which sounded amazing, the intensity of Chef Gallo’s kitchen ( “they work us like gladiators, but I’m learning so much” ), and a snapshot of the Arno at dusk attached at the bottom, the sky painted gold and pink.
It was cheerful. Polite. Informative.
And it cut straight through him.
It could have been an update to anyone: Raj, Willow, probably even Franco’s grandmother. There was nothing in it that was aimed directly at Ben. No sly jokes, no confessions, no whisper between the lines that said I’m thinking about you.
Ben sank down onto the edge of his bed, his phone slack in his hand, staring at the words until they blurred.
He should’ve been glad Franco was doing well, thriving and—God help him—happy, but the emails only made the distance wider, sharper.
Franco’s voice was there in the words, but Franco himself was gone .
The flat was too quiet without him. The spaces where he used to move—the kitchen, the couch, the warm dent in the bed—felt hollow.
Ben caught himself saving little stories from his day, ready to tell Franco, only to realise he had nowhere to put them.
He caught himself reaching for his phone late at night, wanting to text I miss you, but he never did.
He wouldn’t be the one to pull on the thread Franco was clearly keeping neatly tied.
Ben tried to keep busy. He threw himself into the restaurant, into numbers and orders and late-night paperwork. It didn’t help. Franco was everywhere, in Ollie’s laughter when he dropped a glass, in the smell of simmering tomatoes and garlic…
In the silence that followed Ben home.
Three weeks. He’d only been gone three weeks, and it already felt like forever.
Ben swiped the phone off, set it face-down on the nightstand, and rubbed the heel of his hand against his chest where the ache had settled, dull and relentless. The worst part wasn’t missing Franco.
It was the gnawing fear that maybe Franco didn’t miss him back.
Ben had only come back into the office because he’d left his ledger behind. The door was half-closed behind him, allowing voices to drift through from the kitchen. He smiled to himself.
These guys could win gold in an Olympic talking event.
Then he caught Lexie mentioning Franco’s name, and he stilled, straining to hear.
“I’ve been in touch with him too.” Willow’s voice was low but audible. “Yeah, you’re right, he talks a lot about Ben. Like… a lot. Honestly, I feel guilty. After all, Operation Sunshine was my idea. Well, Operation Distracto, originally. Raj came up with the sunshine part, remember? ”
Ben frowned. What on earth…
There was a sharp clatter, like a mug hitting the counter, then Mina’s voice sliced in. “Wait— Operation Distracto ? What are you talking about?”
“Oh God, you weren’t in on this, were you?” Lexie said. “I totally forgot.”
“It was a joke,” Willow said after a moment’s hesitation. “Well, at first. You remember how Ben was… you know, driving us all insane with the moody brooding thing? Mr. Corporate? And Franco was doing what Franco always does, all charm and flirt, and… well, I thought maybe if Ben relaxed a little…”
Beats of silence.
“You mean you asked him to seduce Ben?” Mina’s voice rose in horror.
Lexie exhaled heavily. “It wasn’t exactly like that. I mean, maybe at first, yeah, it was about distracting him, but then it changed. I think Franco actually fell for him. Hard. You could see it.”
Willow’s voice softened. “Yeah. I knew it was serious when right after the staff retreat Franco told me it had gone beyond a joke, and that we should forget it. But by then… well, it was working. Ben was smiling , for God’s sake.
He wasn’t carrying the world on his shoulders the way he did when he first got here.
I told Franco as much, but we never brought it up again. ”
Cold inched its way through Ben. What. The. Fuck?
Yet more silence followed before Mina spoke, her voice quiet and stricken. “So what they had…it wasn’t real?”
Lexie let out a small sigh. “Maybe it didn’t start out real. But the way it ended? I’ve never seen Franco look at anyone the way he looked at Ben.”
Ben expelled a long breath, his muscles frozen, his limbs heavy. Inside he felt numb. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, but the doorframe seemed to be the only thing holding him up.
So that was how it had started.
A staff joke. A ridiculous scheme to handle the boss who was apparently too much for them. And Franco—dear God—Franco had played along.
He closed his eyes, trying to steady himself against the throb in his chest. He didn’t believe for a second Franco had been playing him.
No way. What they’d had—what they’d shared in those last days—wasn’t something you could fake.
He’d seen it in Franco’s eyes, felt it in every touch. That was real. It had to be.
But the rest of it—the knowledge that the people he trusted, the people he’d worked beside and defended and believed in—had thought so little of him they’d cook up something like this? That they’d laugh behind his back and set him up like some miserable punchline?
That cut deeper than he wanted to admit.
I thought I knew them. I thought I was part of a family.
And now?
He wasn’t sure if he could ever look at them the same way again.
His hand slipped from the doorknob, his fingers curling into a fist at his side. He went to his desk and dropped into the chair like a stone, the echo of Willow’s words following him like a shadow.
Operation Distracto.
Operation Sunshine.
It wasn’t only his relationship with Franco that had changed him—it was everything: the restaurant, the people, the very foundation he thought he was standing on.
Do I even belong here anymore?
One thing was certain. Ben was going to spend the rest of the day in his office, as far away from the staff as possible.
He had no clue what would come out of his mouth otherwise.
Ben let himself into his flat. It felt colder than usual, although maybe that was his mood distorting his senses. He didn’t bother with the lights, but dropped his keys in the bowl by the door and went straight to the couch, sinking down hard enough to make the springs groan.
The silence pressed against his ears. Normally, he’d put on the radio or the TV, just for the sound. Tonight, he wanted nothing, only him and the echo of voices he couldn’t stop replaying.
Operation Sunshine .
The phrase had looped through his head all day. Before this, he’d thought Willow’s teasing had been harmless, that Lexie’s barbs were just Lexie being Lexie. But all along, behind the laughter, behind the easy camaraderie—this.
He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and rubbed his face with both hands.
“God,” he whispered into the quiet. “What the hell am I even doing?”
Images slid unbidden through his mind. Franco in his kitchen, barefoot, laughing as he stole a forkful of pasta. Franco asleep on his chest, his hair falling across his brow. Franco whispering Ben, take me to bed in that voice that made Ben’s blood run hot.
None of that could have been fake. He knew it, right down to the marrow. And yet it had started as a joke. A scheme. Something to manage him, as if he was a problem to be solved rather than someone they respected.
He got up and walked over to the dark window, his own reflection staring hollowly back.
If this was what his staff thought of him—if this was how little they trusted him—what was the point of holding on so tightly?
Granted, he’d only poured months into that restaurant, but he’d also poured his sweat, his sanity, every ounce of fight he had.
And for what? To become the butt of a joke?
Ben’s jaw tightened. He could feel it, the itch to do something, to stop stewing and start acting.
An Exit Strategy. That’s what I need. An actual plan.
He’d sell the restaurant. It wasn’t impossible; hell, the place was profitable, and it had a decent reputation.
With the right broker, it could move quickly enough.
And with the proceeds… well, he could wa lk away clean.
No messy confrontations, no begging for loyalty that should have been there all along.
The thought settled in his chest with a grim kind of relief. It hurt— God , it hurt—but at least it was something he could control.
He crossed the floor to his desk and flicked on the lamp. The light washed across neat stacks of bills, ledgers, letters. He pulled a pad of paper toward him and began to write.
— Contact solicitor re: valuation
— Discreet inquiries to brokers
— Timeline: 3–6 months
— Staff handover? Or just cut ties?
His pen moved steadily, his mind falling into the familiar rhythm of planning, the only thing that kept the gnawing ache in his chest from swallowing him whole. When he finally set the pen down, the page looked like something between a battle plan and a surrender note.
Ben sat back, staring at it, the weight of the decision pressing down.
Am I really ready to give it up? To walk away from the place that’s become my anchor?
Except he knew the anchor had been Franco, and right then Ben felt adrift.
His gaze fell on the pad of paper, to the stark black lines of his own handwriting. Sell. Exit. Cut ties.
But what about Franco?
The thought cut through him like glass. What if Franco really did come back in December, full of stories about Florence, with that fire in his eyes that only cooking gave him? What if he stood in this very flat, his suitcase at his feet, and said I’m here. I’m ready. Let’s do this.
Except Ben wasn’t here anymore, and someone else inhabited this space.
Could I live with that? Could he walk away from the restaurant—the one tether that had tied them together—and risk not just losing his staff, his livelihood, but Franco too ?
Ben pressed the heel of his hand against his sternum, as though he could push back the ache. It wasn’t just about Franco, and yet… God, it was, more than he wanted to admit.
But the truth pressed back harder: the cracks had already shown. His trust in the restaurant, in the people he’d built it with, was broken. And if he stayed, pretending nothing had shifted, he’d only rot alongside it.
Franco deserved someone whole. Someone who wasn’t bleeding out from every betrayal, who wasn’t clawing for control just to keep standing.
Ben’s throat tightened. Maybe, if Franco came back and still wanted him, they’d find a way. Maybe they’d build something new, someplace else. But he couldn’t stay here, not now, not after what he’d heard.
He picked up the pad and stared at the neat bullet points again. His decision didn’t feel clean, but it felt necessary.
He was torn down the middle, with guilt and longing tangling until he could barely breathe. There was only one path he could see.
Tomorrow, I’ll make the calls.