Chapter 31
Smoke & Mirrors
Sage
The dinner rush thrums like a pressure cooker about to blow. Every station’s alive—burners flaring, knives chopping, the rhythm of plates hitting the pass. Heat presses close, sweat gathers at my hairline, but my hands stay steady. The muscle memory of service takes over. Chop. Sear. Plate. Repeat.
The TV mounted above the bar plays muted sports coverage, but I don’t need sound to know what’s running. Grayson’s smirk fills the screen, that practiced charisma turned weapon. The caption beneath him—“Guess everyone’s got a recipe for success.”
I don’t flinch. Not outwardly. Inside, though, something sharp twists and locks in my chest. He’s still doing it—making me a punchline, reducing my work, my name, to some soundbite. It used to feel like drowning. Now, it’s just noise.
“Chef?” One of the line cooks, Tessa, glances up, her voice soft but wary. “You wanna—uh—maybe turn the TV off?”
I follow her gaze to the corner, where another replay rolls—Grayson, grinning into a mic. The camera cuts to B-roll footage of Leo mid-game, my face flashing next to his. The woman who tanked two hockey stars. The headline burns across the screen.
Every whisper in the kitchen seems to pause. I can feel eyes flicking my way. The pity, the curiosity, the judgment—they’re all there, quiet but heavy.
I set down the plate I’m holding and straighten, wiping my hands on my apron. “No,” I say simply, meeting Tessa’s eyes. “Keep the line moving.”
For a second, no one breathes. Then someone calls for sauce, someone else shouts for garnish, and the rhythm picks up again. Like nothing happened. Like normal.
I let it. Because the only way through a storm is to keep walking.
When I turn back to the grill, the smell of char and garlic hits me, grounding me in the moment. The hiss of oil, the scrape of metal—it’s real. This is where I still have control. Grayson can talk, the media can twist, but this? This kitchen? This is mine.
Still, when my phone buzzes in my pocket a few minutes later, I don’t need to check to know who it is.
The Puck Whisperer. The title flashes through my mind before I even pull it out: “The woman who tanked two hockey stars.” I stare at the lock screen for half a second, my reflection warped in the glass.
Tessa catches me looking. “Chef… you okay?”
I slide the phone face-down onto the counter. “Fine,” I say, my voice even. “We’re not stopping now. Fire table twelve.”
And just like that, the world narrows again to the plate in front of me—the butter melting across seared salmon, the bright pop of lemon zest, the whisper of salt from between my fingers. The noise fades to static.
Because they can say whatever they want. I’ll just keep cooking.
By the time service slows, the kitchen feels hollowed out, like the air’s been scraped thin by hours of heat and movement. The last table’s gone, the burners off, and the only sound left is the clatter of dishes in the sink. My body hums with leftover adrenaline, but my mind’s still racing.
I check my phone as I step into the alley behind the restaurant.
The night air is thick but cool, a relief against my skin.
The screen lights up instantly—alerts stacked on alerts.
Mentions. Headlines. Reposts. And right at the top, another push from The Puck Whisperer.
The words sting more than I expect: “The woman who tanked two hockey stars.”
I laugh under my breath, but it’s a sharp, bitter sound—more disbelief than amusement. It’s like watching someone write your obituary while you’re still alive.
The city hums around me—sirens in the distance, a car horn, the buzz of a late-night crowd. The world keeps spinning, unaware that mine’s been dissected and repackaged for clicks. I should be used to it by now. But I’m not.
My fingers hover over the screen, itching to say something, to reclaim some small piece of truth. For a second, I picture Leo’s face if he knew I was even considering it. The worry in his eyes, the way he carries every blow like it’s his to absorb.
No. This isn’t about him. It’s about me.
I open a new post, my thumbs steady as I type. Funny thing about noise—if you keep moving, it fades. I stare at it for a beat, simple and human, exactly what I want it to be. No defense, no drama. Just fact.
My heart ticks hard as I hit post.
For a long moment, nothing happens. The city moves around me, indifferent. Then the notifications start rolling in—slow, then faster, like rain building to a storm. Likes. Retweets. Mentions. My words taking flight, out of my hands now.
Someone nearby opens the back door to dump trash, and warm light spills into the alley. “Hey, Chef, we’re locking up,” Tessa calls. “You good?”
I slip my phone into my pocket and nod. “Yeah,” I say, stepping toward the door. “Let’s call it a night.”
As I walk back through the kitchen, I glance once more at the reflection in the darkened window. I look tired, sure—but not small. Not broken.
The noise is still there, but tonight, it doesn’t own me.
By the time I get home, the apartment smells like garlic and simmering tomatoes—Leo’s cooking. The tension that’s been coiled in my chest since the restaurant eases a little at the sound of clinking dishes. He’s in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, pacing while the sauce bubbles on the stove.
“Smells good,” I say, hanging my bag on the hook.
He glances up, his jaw tight, eyes shadowed. “You posted.”
Not a question. Just a statement. I nod, leaning against the counter. “Yeah. And before you ask, no—I’m not deleting it.”
Leo exhales hard, his shoulders tensing as he scrubs a palm over the back of his neck. “I wasn’t gonna tell you to delete it.” He looks at me then, the anger in his eyes undercut by something else. Fear. “I just wish you didn’t have to fight back. You shouldn’t have to.”
“I don’t have to,” I say quietly. “I want to.”
He studies me for a long moment, like he’s trying to decide whether to argue. Then he shakes his head and stirs the sauce instead. “You’re trending,” he says finally. “Half the comments love you. Half are garbage. Claire called me twice.”
“Let her call again.” I grab a spoon from the drawer, tasting the sauce. It’s perfect—rich, balanced, warm. “You cook angry well,” I tease, and the corner of his mouth lifts despite himself.
He leans back against the counter, watching me. “You’re calm,” he says, almost surprised.
“I’m tired,” I admit, setting the spoon down. “But I’m done letting people decide what story I’m part of. They want to spin it? Fine. I’ll just keep being louder by showing up.”
For a second, neither of us speaks. The only sound is the soft simmer of sauce, the rhythm of two people trying to figure out how to stay upright in the storm.
Then Leo says, “You’re stronger than I’ve ever seen you.” His voice is low, honest. “It scares the hell out of me.”
I meet his gaze, something soft breaking open inside me. “You don’t have to be scared for me.”
“I’m not,” he says. “I’m scared of what they’ll do next.”
I reach across the counter, my hand brushing his. “Then we deal with it together.”
He nods once, slow. “Together.”
Dinner’s quiet after that, but it’s the kind of quiet that feels like safety, not silence.
It’s late when I wake up, the room washed in blue light. For a moment, I can’t tell what stirred me—then I see the glow coming from Leo’s side of the bed.
His phone.
The screen lights his face in flashes, unreadable in the dark. His brow is furrowed, shoulders tense. I blink the sleep from my eyes and whisper, “Leo?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at the screen, thumb frozen mid-scroll. When he finally looks at me, his expression is guarded. Careful. “Go back to sleep.”
Something cold threads down my spine. I push up onto one elbow. “What is it?”
He hesitates, then turns the phone just enough for me to catch the message preview before the screen goes dark again.
You can’t protect her forever, Voss.
The words linger in the air like smoke, poisonous and impossible to breathe around.
My pulse kicks hard. “Who—”
“I don’t know,” he says, too quickly. His hand tightens around the phone, knuckles white. “Could be a burner. Could be anyone.”
“But it’s not random,” I whisper. “They used your name.”
He exhales, long and low, then reaches over to brush his hand along my arm. “It’s just noise,” he says, echoing my own words from earlier. But his voice isn’t steady. Not this time.
The phone screen goes dark again, and the room feels smaller, heavier. Outside, the city hums like nothing’s changed—but I can feel it. Something’s shifted.
This isn’t just about gossip anymore.
It’s a warning.