17. Mia
MIA
Four days pass since leaving Ethan's penthouse like a fugitive on the run.
I throw myself into work because work is the only thing that makes sense anymore.
New menu development, staff training, vendor negotiations.
Jamal notices I'm wound tighter than usual but has the grace not to comment, just works his station and occasionally slides me coffee when my hands start shaking.
Tuesday afternoon, Harry mentions it first.
"Chef, there's some guy outside."
I'm breaking down the duck, knife moving through joints swiftly. "What guy?"
"I don't know. Just standing across the street, looking at the restaurant. Been there maybe ten minutes."
My hands stop moving. "What does he look like?"
"White, maybe thirties, expensive coat." Harry shrugs. "Just... standing there."
I set down the knife, wipe my hands on my apron. Walk to the front windows where I can see the street.
There's no one there.
Just normal midday traffic, pedestrians moving past, a delivery truck idling at the corner. I scan every face, every figure, looking for Derek's particular brand of presence.
Nothing.
"You sure?" I ask Harry.
He joins me at the window, peers out. His brow furrows. "He was right there. I swear."
"Maybe he left."
"Maybe."
But Harry doesn't sound convinced, and neither am I.
I return to the kitchen, pick up the knife again. My hands are steadier than they should be, muscle memory taking over while my brain goes over the possibilities.
The duck gets portioned, prepped, filed away in the walk-in with the expertise of someone who's done this ten thousand times.
At three o'clock I take a break, step outside for air I don't need, just an excuse to scan the street myself.
The sidewalk is normal. The coffee shop across the way is doing steady business.
Bodega on the corner has its produce stacked outside.
A few people are waiting at the bus stop, none of them paying attention to Sable.
I'm turning to go back inside when I collide with something solid.
Not something. Someone.
Derek.
The impact knocks the air from my lungs. His hands come up to steady me, fingers closing around my upper arms with a familiar pressure that makes my skin crawl.
"Mia." His voice is warm, like we're old friends running into each other. "It's been a while."
I jerk backward, breaking his grip, and put three feet of distance between us, my back against Sable's front window.
He looks exactly as I remember. Expensive haircut, designer coat, a polished appearance that money buys. His brown eyes that track my movements with unsettling focus. That smile he always wore when he thought he was winning.
"What are you doing here?" I snap.
"I was in the neighborhood. Thought I'd check out your restaurant. The reviews are excellent."
"You need to leave."
"The sidewalk's public property, Mia. I can stand wherever I want."
"There's a restraining order. Five hundred feet."
"I'm considering an apartment nearby. I wanted to scope out the neighborhood, see what the dining options are like." His smile widens slightly. "Sable's at the top of my list."
"Derek—"
"How's married life?" he interrupts smoothly. "I saw the photos. It all looked very romantic, that little City Hall ceremony you did. Though I always imagined you'd want something more elaborate. Remember that venue we looked at in Connecticut? The one with the garden?"
The memory makes bile rise in my throat. We'd gone to that venue during the year we were together, back when I still believed his controlling behavior was devotion. Before I understood what he was.
"I need to go," I say.
"We should have coffee sometime. Catch up properly. There's a place two blocks from here that does excellent espresso."
"I'm not having coffee with you."
"Why not? We're adults. Surely we can have a civil conversation."
"Stay away from me, Derek. I mean it."
I turn and walk back toward Sable's entrance, moving fast but not running because running would show fear and I won't give him that.
His voice follows me. "It was good seeing you, Mia. I'm sure we'll run into each other again soon."
The door closes behind me and I lock it immediately, hands shaking so badly it takes three tries to get the deadbolt engaged.
Tanya looks up from the hostess stand. "Chef? You okay?"
"Fine. I'm fine."
I'm not fine.
I retreat to my office, close the door, and lean against it while my heart hammers against my ribs. My mind goes to one person in an instant. Ethan. I should call him, tell him what just happened. Derek violated the order, and as my lawyer, Ethan needs to know.
But calling him means admitting I need help. It means opening a door I've been trying to keep closed since I walked out of his apartment four days ago.
I text instead. "Derek was outside Sable. Confronted me on the sidewalk."
The response comes within seconds. "Are you okay?"
"Yes."
"I'm coming there."
"No. I'm fine. Just documenting it like you said."
It takes a while before he replies to me. "Mia, we need to talk."
"I know."
"Tonight. My place or yours?"
Shutting my eyes tight, I let out a deep exhale before typing out the word. "Mine."
"What time?"
"After service. Ten."
"I'll be there."
I pocket the phone and sit at my desk, head in my hands. The office feels smaller than usual, walls pressing in like they've been doing for days.
I've got five hours to pull myself together and pretend everything's fine when nothing's fine, when Derek Wayne just told me he's moving two blocks away and my fake husband is the only person I want to call and I can't separate anymore what's real from what's performance.
My phone chimes again. An email this time, from a food critic I've been courting for months. Gabriette Yang, New York Magazine, one of the most influential voices in the city's dining scene.
The subject line reads: Regrets - Sable Reservation
My stomach drops before I even open it.
"Mia, I hope this email finds you well. I'm writing to let you know I need to cancel my reservation for next week. Unfortunately, some scheduling conflicts have come up that I can't work around. I apologize for the short notice and hope we can reschedule in the future. Best, Gabriette."
Scheduling conflicts. The phrase is neutral, professional, exactly what someone would say when backing out of a commitment.
Except Gabriette doesn't back out of commitments. She's known for showing up to restaurants unannounced, for following through on every reservation, for treating her critical work with a dedication that borders on obsession.
Something made her cancel.
Or someone.
The kitchen calls for me. Prep work needs finishing, staff needs directing, service starts in five hours and I need to be Chef Mia Holland who has her shit together, not this version of myself who's falling apart in a closet-sized office while her ex-boyfriend circles closer.
I stand, straighten my chef's coat, tie my apron with hands that have finally stopped shaking.
The kitchen is my sanctuary. It's been that way since I was sixteen years old learning how to make my grandmother's recipes, since culinary school when I discovered I was good at this in ways I wasn't good at anything else, since I opened Sable and proved to everyone including myself that I could build something lasting.
Except right now it feels like a cage.
Like Derek's winning by making me afraid in the one place I'm supposed to feel safe.
I push through the door anyway, call out prep assignments, check temperatures, taste sauces, and fall into the rhythm that's sustained me through everything else life has thrown my way.
But underneath the competence, underneath the chef's coat and the mask I'm wearing, panic builds with every passing hour.
And what scares me most is that when I think about who I want to talk to, who I want beside me when this all inevitably gets worse, the answer isn't complicated anymore.
It's Ethan.
Which means I'm in trouble far deeper than Derek Wayne, and I have no idea how to get out.