19. Mia
MIA
Service runs long tonight. A private party of twelve orders half the menu, and by the time the last dessert goes out my feet are screaming and my lower back has that ache that comes from eight hours on the line.
But it was good. Really good, actually. The party loved everything, left a generous tip, and asked about booking Sable for a corporate event next month.
Tanya's already penciling in dates, and Jamal's breaking down his station with the satisfied efficiency of someone who knows they nailed every plate.
I'm wiping down the pass when he catches my eye.
"You did good tonight, Chef."
"We all did good," I correct. "That lamb special you suggested sold out by eight-thirty. You should be proud."
"Told you the pomegranate molasses would work."
"Yeah, yeah. Don't let it go to your head."
He grins, tosses his towel into the laundry bin. "You heading out soon?"
"Another hour, maybe. I want to prep the stock for tomorrow."
"You've been here since noon. Go home."
"I'm fine."
"You've been saying that all week and we both know it's garbage." He leans against the counter, arms crossed. "Whatever's going on with you and your lawyer husband, figure it out. You're wound so tight you're going to snap, and I don't want to be here when that happens."
The observation lands with uncomfortable accuracy. I set down the rag, and meet his eyes.
"I'm handling it."
"You're drowning in it, Chef."
"Jamal—"
"I'm not trying to overstep. Just saying what everyone's thinking and is too scared to tell you. You're running yourself into the ground. And for what? This place will still be here if you take a night off."
He's right, of course. But taking a night off means going home to my empty apartment, means sitting with my thoughts about Ethan and Derek and the rapidly shrinking distance between safety and catastrophe.
"I'll leave soon," I tell him. "Promise."
He doesn't look convinced but he nods, grabs his bag from the office, calls goodnight over his shoulder as he heads out through the back entrance.
The kitchen empties gradually. Tanya clocks out, then the last line cook leaves, until it's just me and the hum of the walk-in compressor and the low lighting I keep on after hours.
I start the stock anyway, even though Jamal's right and I should go home. Roast the bones, char the vegetables, everything going into the massive pot that will simmer overnight and become the foundation for next week's soups and sauces.
The routine is soothing. Repetitive movements, familiar smells, the controlled environment where I understand exactly what I'm doing and why.
By the time I finish it's past midnight. My hands smell like roasted garlic and thyme, my chef's coat has accumulated the usual collection of stains and smudges that come with a full day's work.
I grab my bag from the office, lock up, and step out into the humid night.
The subway's mostly empty at this hour. Just a few late-shift workers, a couple of drunk college kids, and a homeless man sleeping across three seats. I find a spot near the door, lean my head against the window, and watch the tunnel walls blur past.
My phone buzzes. A text from Olivia: "Dinner soon? Feel like I haven't seen you in weeks."
She's not wrong. Between the restaurant and the Derek situation and whatever's happening with Ethan, I've been terrible about maintaining friendships that existed before my life became this complicated.
I type back. "Soon. I promise. Things have been insane."
Her response comes immediately: "Everything okay?"
"I'm fine. Just busy. We'll catch up this weekend."
"You better. Love you."
"Love you too."
The train stops at my station. I climb the stairs to street level, emerge into air that's thick with the promise of rain. The walk to my building takes seven minutes, familiar enough that I could do it blind.
I'm fishing for my keys when I notice the door.
It's ajar. Not wide open, just slightly cracked, the lock not fully engaged.
My stomach drops.
I always lock my door. Always. It's muscle memory, drilled into me since I was old enough to have my own apartment. Even this morning, exhausted and distracted, I would have locked it.
I push the door open slowly, heart hammering against my ribs.
The apartment is dark except for the ambient light from the street filtering through the windows. Everything looks normal from the darkened doorway. Couch where it should be, coffee table centered, bookshelf against the wall.
I flip the light switch.
The devastation hits me in waves.
The couch cushions are slashed open, stuffing pulled out and scattered across the floor.
Every book from the bookshelf is thrown down, spines cracked, pages torn.
The coffee table is overturned, one leg snapped completely off.
My grandmother's quilt, the one thing I have left of her, is ripped down the middle and crumpled in the corner.
The kitchen is worse. Every cabinet is open, dishes smashed on the floor in a sea of ceramic shards. The refrigerator door hangs wide, contents dumped out and stepped on, milk pooling across the tile. Flour coats every surface, mixed with what looks like olive oil to create a viscous paste.
My bedroom. I don't want to look but I force myself to move down the hallway on legs that feel disconnected from my body.
The bed is destroyed, mattress slashed open. My clothes are pulled from the closet and shredded, fabric torn into strips. The jewelry box my grandmother gave me is open on the dresser, empty except for one item.
A single black rose.
I stand in the doorway of my ruined bedroom and the panic I've been holding back for days finally breaks through.
My hands start shaking first. Then my legs go weak and I'm sinking to the floor, back pressed against the doorframe, staring at the destruction of my private space while my lungs forget how to pull in air properly.
He was here. In my apartment, touching my things, destroying everything I own with a violence that speaks to rage barely controlled.
The black rose sits on the dresser like an accusation. Like a promise.
I can get to you anywhere. Nothing is safe.
I don't know how long I sit there. Time stretches and compresses, minutes feeling like hours while my brain tries to process what I'm looking at.
Eventually my hands stop shaking enough that I can reach for my phone.
I should call the police. That's the logical response, the thing any rational person would do when their apartment gets ransacked by someone with a documented history of stalking.
Instead I pull up Ethan's contact.
My thumb hovers over the call button. It's past midnight, he's probably asleep, and calling him means admitting I need help in a way I swore I wouldn't need after walking out of his penthouse days ago.
But standing in my destroyed apartment, staring at that black rose, I realize I'm out of options.
I hit call.
He answers on the second ring, voice rough with sleep. "Mia?"
"I—" My voice cracks. I try again. "I need you to come over."
"What's wrong?"
"Just... please come. Now."
"I'm on my way."
The line goes dead. I lean my head back against the doorframe and close my eyes, trying to steady my breathing, trying to stop the tears that are threatening to spill over.
I don't cry. Haven't cried since the day I left Derek two years ago, swore I'd never give him that power again.
But sitting in the ruins of my apartment, surrounded by the physical evidence of his hatred, I feel the tears come anyway.
Silent, hot, streaming down my face while I wait for Ethan to arrive and see exactly how badly I'm failing at keeping myself together.