Chapter 4
Sarah
The tray slipped in my hands for the third time in an hour.
I caught it before the glasses crashed, but barely. Water sloshed over the rim and soaked into my sleeve. The businessman at table twelve didn’t even look up from his phone, didn’t notice how close he’d come to wearing his entire order.
I still couldn’t pull myself together.
It had been three days since the loan sharks cornered me in the rain, and their words kept looping in my head.
I called Colin every hour to make sure he was still alive, still whole. But I might have managed to only get him worried and suspicious that something was wrong.
How was I supposed to get a hundred thousand dollars in ninety days?
I’d done the math approximately seven thousand times. Even if I saved every cent from three jobs, didn’t pay rent, didn’t eat, didn’t exist, I’d still be seventy thousand short. The numbers didn’t work no matter how many times I rearranged them. There was no scenario where this ended well.
“Order up!”
I grabbed the plates from the window and tried to remember which table ordered the salmon. My brain felt wrapped in cotton, everything taking twice as long to process.
My father had died two years ago in a single-vehicle collision. The police said he was drunk, and I wasn’t surprised. What surprised me was feeling nothing when they told me, no grief, no relief, just a dull sort of acknowledgment that he couldn’t hurt us anymore.
Except he could. Even dead, he found ways.
The loan sharks showed up two weeks after his funeral and knocked on my door at seven in the morning like they were delivering a package. They told me my father owed them money, a lot of money, and that debt didn’t die with the debtor.
I’d laughed in their faces and told them that wasn’t how it worked. Told them to sue his estate or leave me alone.
They didn’t leave.
They cornered Colin in the street several times, beating him until he could barely walk home.
So I paid.
When Colin got the scholarship to London, he didn’t want to go. He’d already packed his bags twice and unpacked them twice, insisting he couldn’t leave me alone with “those men.” He wanted to defer for a year, stay home, work part-time, and help me figure out things together.
But I couldn’t let him do that. He’d earned that scholarship. He deserved a life that wasn’t shaped by our father’s mistakes.
So I lied.
I told him the debt was almost gone. Told him I’d worked out a deal, that the worst was behind us.
And because the loan sharks had gone quiet for a few weeks—thanks to the first chunk of money I scraped together—he believed me.
He hugged me at the airport, promised to call every night, and boarded the plane, thinking the nightmare was over.
He had no idea it was only quiet because I’d emptied my savings, sold half of my furniture and taken every shift I could just to keep them off his back long enough for him to leave the country.
He’d been in London for months by the time I met Hector and I took the job in the penthouse.
And when that first paycheck hit my account—more money than I’d ever seen at once—I didn’t even hesitate.
I sent almost all of it straight to the loan sharks.
Every cent after that, too. For two years, I paid and paid and paid while Colin lived across the ocean, blissfully unaware that the only reason he was safe was because I was drowning myself to keep him that way.
He thought I was finally saving for my certification.
He thought I was finally getting ahead.
He didn’t know that every time he called from his tiny dorm room, excited about a new class or a new friend or a new opportunity, I was standing in line at Western Union, sending away the money that should’ve been building my future.
And last month, when I made what I thought was the final transfer, I cried in my bathroom for twenty minutes straight. Not because I was free, but because I could finally start saving for myself. For my exam. For a life that wasn’t built on fear.
Except I wasn’t free.
Not even close.
“Excuse me?” A woman’s voice pulled me back. “Miss?”
I blinked and looked down. I’d been standing at table eight with their food for who knew how long, holding it like a statue.
“Sorry.” I set the plates down too hard and silverware rattled. “Sorry. Enjoy.”
I needed to get it together. Needed to focus. One more hour and my shift was done. I could go home, curl up on my couch, and have a proper breakdown in private like a functional adult.
The door chimed and I glanced up automatically, ready to smile at new customers.
A woman stood in the entrance with two kids clutching her legs. One couldn’t have been more than four while the other was maybe six. Both had that expression kids get when they’re trying very hard to be good.
The woman looked around the restaurant like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to be there. Her clothes were clean but worn.
I knew that look. I’d worn it myself more times than I could count.
She approached the host stand and spoke too quietly for me to hear. Maria, my coworker, shook her head. The woman said something else and Maria shook her head again, firmer this time.
The woman’s shoulders dropped as she turned to leave, already herding her kids toward the door.
“Wait.” I didn’t mean to say it out loud. Didn’t mean to get involved.
She stopped and looked at me with these exhausted eyes that had probably forgotten what hope looked like.
“Give me a second,” I said.
I slipped into the kitchen before Maria could stop me. The back prep area was full of trays of food. Roasted chicken, pasta, vegetables, bread. In three hours the restaurant would close and all of this would go in the trash like it always did. Perfectly good food was wasted because that was policy.
I grabbed containers and started packing.
“What are you doing?” Chef Andre appeared behind me.
“Just packing some food.”
“For who?”
“Does it matter?”
He looked at me for a long moment, then sighed and turned back to his station. “I didn’t see anything.”
I packed enough for a family of four for at least two days and added extra because the kids looked like they needed it. I loaded everything into a bag and walked back out to the dining room.
The woman was still there, waiting by the door like she didn’t quite believe I was coming back.
“Here.” I pressed the bag into her hands. “It’s all cooked. Just needs reheating.”
Her eyes went bright and wet. “I can’t pay—”
“You don’t have to, just take it.”
“Thank you.” Her voice broke. “Thank you so much.”
She left quickly with kids in tow before anyone could change their minds.
I turned around and nearly walked straight into the manager.
Greg stood there with his arms crossed, his face already red. “What the hell was that?”
“Leftover food that was going to be thrown out anyway.”
“That’s not your decision to make.”
“It was just going to waste—”
“I don’t care if it was going to sprout wings and fly away.” His voice got louder and sharper. “You don’t give away restaurant property without permission. You don’t steal from this establishment.”
“I didn’t steal anything. It was going in the trash.”
“It’s still theft.” He was yelling now, full volume, every table in the restaurant staring. “You think you can just take whatever you want? You think the rules don’t apply to you?”
My face burned, and I wanted to shrink, disappear.
“It was just food—”
“It was my food!” He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging in hard enough to hurt. “You’re done. Get in the kitchen. Now.”
He was yelling at me so loud and making a scene that the whole restaurant could hear.
Then he grabbed my arm and dragged me into the kitchen, toward the doors, and I tried to pull free but his grip tightened. People stared and whispered, their eyes pressing on me like physical weight.
Suddenly, I heard a chair scrape back, the kitchen doors slammed open and he walked through.
Yes. Hector Valdez himself.
He didn't even look at my boss, pulled out his phone to make a call, and said, "Robert? It’s Hector Valdez. I want to buy this restaurant. Now."
His voice was conversational and easy. “Aurelio’s in Midtown. Yes, now. I don’t care what the current owner wants. Offer him three times market value and have the papers drawn up within the hour.”
Greg’s hand went slack on my arm, his mouth opening but no sound coming out.
Hector listened to whatever Robert was saying and his expression never changed. “Good. Send the contracts to my office. And Robert? I want full ownership transferred by end of business today.” He hung up, pocketed his phone, then finally looked at Greg.
Fifteen seconds later he hung up the phone, walked straight past my boss and took my hand.
My boss stepped forward and threw his hands to his side, pouting, "Now wait just a minute... you can't just... this is MY kitchen!"
“You’re fired,” Hector said. “Get out.”
“You can’t—” Greg found his voice. “The owner will get mad. You can’t walk in here and—”
“I just bought it, which means it’s my restaurant now.” Hector’s tone didn’t change, didn’t get louder or angrier. “I’ve been eyeing it for a while now, and the papers are already drafted. Your owner already knows that. I’ll make sure he knows that you’re the one who solidified my decision to buy.”
When Greg still wasn’t moving, Hector added, “You have five minutes to collect your personal belongings and leave. After that, you’ll be trespassing.”
Greg’s face went purple.
“Four minutes.”
Greg looked around like someone might help him but no one moved, no one spoke. Finally he turned and stormed toward his office, muttering curses under his breath.
Hector walked past the frozen staff, past the staring customers, straight to where I stood. He took my arm—not rough like Greg had, just firm and matter-of-fact.
“We’re leaving,” he said.
“I’m working—”
“Not anymore.” He looked at Maria. “She’s done for the night. Handle it.”
Then he guided me toward the exit and I was too stunned to resist.
My brain was still trying to catch up. “Did you just buy this restaurant?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” We stepped outside into the cold night air before he answered. I pulled my arm free, finally finding my footing.
“Why?” I repeated.
“Because your employer assaulted you in public. I don’t tolerate that.”
For a second, just one ridiculous second, I thought maybe Hector Valdez had a heart under all that ice. That he’d actually bought a restaurant to defend me.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said quietly.
“Clearly I did. Like I said, I was already thinking of buying it anyway.” He looked at me, something in his expression not quite right, like I’d missed the point entirely. “Why are you still working here?”
“Because I need the money.”
“I pay you well.”
“It’s not enough.”
His expression went from cold to arctic. “Not enough. I see. And giving away food for free helps with that, how, exactly?”
My earlier relief started evaporating like water on hot pavement. “That food was going to be thrown out.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
“The point is you’re reckless.” His tone stayed level and controlled, like he was explaining basic math to someone who kept getting two plus two wrong. “You work two jobs, barely function, make careless mistakes, and then give away what little you have. This is not sustainable behavior.”
“I work because I have to!” My voice rose. Did he think I was taking extra jobs as a hobby? Like some people collected stamps and I collected minimum wage paychecks?
“Then don’t let your side quest affect my daughter.”
Side quest. He just called my survival a side quest.
“Your daughter wasn’t even there!”
“No difference. Your emotional state directly affects her.” He paused, his sharp eyes taking in the restaurant behind us like he was already calculating renovations. “Also, if Lily had witnessed that scene, what kind of example would you have set? That it’s acceptable to be treated that way?”
And there it was. The real reason he’d swooped in with his checkbook and hero complex. He didn’t care that I’d been grabbed and humiliated. He cared about protecting his investment in Lily’s therapy. About making sure the help didn’t get too roughed up where it might teach his daughter bad lessons.
“Oh, so throwing money at problems is the better lesson to teach her?” I stepped closer because I was angry now. “Is that what we’re going for? When life gets hard, just buy your way out?”
“If it solves the problem, then why not?” He looked at me like I was being deliberately obtuse.
“Because not everyone has that option! Some of us have to actually live in the real world where problems don’t disappear when you write a check!”
“Your behavior is destructive, and you know it.”
“At least I’m destroying myself for something that matters! Those kids got to eat tonight! But sure, let’s focus on how helping people makes me a bad role model for your daughter!”
His jaw worked like he was physically holding words back. His hand pressed harder into his neck and I could see the tendons standing out, that one tell that said he wasn’t as composed as he pretended to be.
“Find better work,” he said finally, voice tight. “If you must work overtime, find somewhere that respects you.”
The dismissal in those words hurt worse than anything Greg had done.
“Right,” I said, unable to keep the bite out of my voice. “I’ll just go pick up one of those jobs that pay well and treat you like a person. They’re right next to the unicorns and fairy godmothers. Maybe I’ll stop by the tooth fairy’s office while I’m at it, see if she’s hiring.”
Something flickered across his face but he smoothed it away before I could read it. “If you want to keep destroying yourself, that’s your choice.” His voice dropped lower, got firmer. “But don’t do it around my daughter.”
He turned and walked away before I could respond, just left me standing there on the sidewalk with my anger and my shame and the humiliating realization that for one brief, stupid moment back in that restaurant, I’d thought someone had actually cared about me.
I stood there for a long time after he left and watched the restaurant through the window. Greg came out with a box of his things, his face still purple with rage.
He looked at me like I’d ruined his life. Right. Because I was the one who grabbed people and screamed about theft over trash-bound food.
I just lost my restaurant job because of him too, but sure, shoot me that death glare. Because I’m obviously the villain here.