12. Tristan #3
The reality checked him a second later. She was pushing him. She wanted the entitled billionaire to throw a tantrum, pack his bags, and prove to Marianne that he was the monster she claimed he was. He swallowed the threat, burying the urge to retaliate. His pride did not matter anymore.
He lifted his hand from the water, holding up the worn tool. “I’ll get it clean, Hazel. Just hand me a fresh brush, because the bristles on this one are destroyed.”
Hazel scoffed, grabbing a clean towel from an overhead rack. She tossed the cloth onto the prep table, unimpressed by his restraint. “Whining won’t get it done faster. Marianne pulls double shifts out there on her swollen feet, so put your back into it.”
The image of his pregnant wife standing on the hard linoleum for eight hours erased his remaining pride.
He stared at the worn plastic handle resting in his palm.
Surviving this kitchen and earning his wife back meant more than his bruised ego.
He shoved his hands back into the blistering suds, grabbing one of the freshly dumped pans.
He braced the steel rim against the side of the basin and drove his weight into the wire bristles.
The blackened sugar crusted over the aluminum refused to yield.
Tristan bore down on the handle, driving the dull wire bristles into the stubborn scorch marks.
He pushed harder, ignoring the warning ache in his wrists.
His grip slipped. His fingers slid forward off the soapy handle, driving his raw knuckles straight into the hard edge of the pan.
The sharp impact tore the swollen skin wide open across his knuckles.
A searing sting shot straight up his forearm.
Tristan froze, hovering over the sink as a bright line of crimson welled up across his torn knuckles.
He did not drop the brush. He did not ask for a bandage or step away from the basin.
He dragged the ruined bristles back across the scorch marks, letting the fresh blood mix into the suds.
His hand throbbed. He braced the edge of the scrubbed aluminum pan against the sink basin, pausing just long enough to draw a breath of the suffocating, yeast-heavy air. The metal doors behind him groaned open.
A teenager wearing a grease-stained T-shirt and a crooked nametag slouched into the dish pit.
The kid hauled a massive industrial mop bucket by a rusted handle.
He tipped the bucket as he dropped it onto the floor tiles.
A wave of murky bleach water sloshed over the yellow rim.
The foul liquid splattered across the wet floor, pooling near his shoes.
“Watch your step, man,” the teenager said. “The wheels on this thing are shot.”
Tristan stared at the gray puddle seeping toward his shoes. The pungent, chemical reek of bleach burned the back of his throat. He did not step backward to protect the leather. He anchored his shoes in the mess and looked up at the kid. The nametag pinned to the stained cotton read Max.
Max leaned against the prep table, eyeing the messy setup of the dish pit. He pointed a damp finger at the rubber drying mat beside the sink, where Tristan had left the scrubbed pan.
“Dude, you have to rack the clean trays on the metal shelving, not the rubber mat,” Max said. “Hazel will literally murder both of us if you don’t shift them.”
Tristan gripped the wet rim of the pan resting in the sink.
The steel bit into his palm. He fought the urge to dress the kid down like a junior executive.
He was accustomed to junior executives trembling when they walked onto his floor.
Now, a teenager making minimum wage was barking logistical orders at him in a cramped, windowless kitchen.
He held his tongue. Let him give the orders.
Down here, in Marianne’s reality, a tailored suit and a platinum card offered zero leverage.
Sweat, blisters, and blind obedience were the only currency this building accepted.
Tristan released his death grip on the wet metal and stepped away from the sink.
“That’s my fault, Max,” Tristan said. “I’ll get them onto the shelves right now.”
“Cool,” Max replied. “And wipe up that puddle by the sink, because safety hazards are a huge deal to her.”
Tristan did not argue. He turned his back on the teenager and approached the stack of trays resting on the mat.
He wedged his fingers under the bottom tray to lift the entire pile.
The solid mass of wet aluminum drove an agonizing ache into his torn knuckles.
The raw skin stretched tight as he hoisted the metal.
He carried the dripping stack across the narrow aisle.
The water ran down his forearms, soaking the rolled cuffs of his dress shirt.
He slid the pans onto the wire shelving, pushing them back until they rested against the wall.
The dull throb in his hand intensified the moment he released the weight.
Tristan stepped back into the puddle of gray bleach water. He leaned his weight against the edge of the filthy sink and dragged a blistered forearm across his brow, accepting the grueling terms of his surrender.