Chapter 8 Eight

Chapter 8 Eight
The shipment arrived at 7:45 am, fifteen minutes before I was supposed to be there. I knew this because Pearson called me at 7:46, his voice dripping with irritation.

"Where are you?"

"On my way. You said eight o'clock."

"The shipment arrived early. I need you here now."

He hung up before I could respond. I was already on the bus, still twenty minutes away, and there was nothing I could do to make it go faster. By the time I arrived at The Seven, it was 8:10 am, and Pearson was standing in the delivery area with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face.

"You're late."

"You said eight. It's 8:10. The shipment was early."

"And you should have been here early too. That's what people who actually care about their work do." He gestured to the stack of boxes. "Check everything against the inventory list. I want to know if anything is missing or damaged."

He walked away before I could respond, leaving me alone with the delivery driver, who gave me a sympathetic look.

"Tough boss?" he asked.

"Something like that," I muttered.

The next three hours were spent checking boxes, counting items, and comparing everything against the invoice. It was tedious work, made worse by the fact that Pearson kept walking by, checking on my progress with barely concealed skepticism.

"You missed a box," he said at one point, pointing to a small container I'd set aside.

"That's damaged. I was going to report it."

"How damaged?"

I opened the box to show him. Inside, three bottles of expensive olive oil had shattered, their contents seeping into the cardboard. The smell was overwhelming.

Pearson's jaw tightened. "This is the third shipment in a row with damaged goods. Did you note the damage on the delivery receipt?"

"Yes. And I took photos for the insurance claim."

He looked surprised, then suspicious. "Why?"

"Because that's what you're supposed to do when you receive damaged goods. File a claim, get reimbursed, reorder."

"I know what you're supposed to do. I'm just surprised you do."

"Right. Because I'm incompetent. I forgot." I went back to checking boxes, my jaw clenched so tight it ached.

Pearson stood there for a moment longer, as if he wanted to say something, then walked away. I exhaled slowly, trying to release the tension in my shoulders.

By noon, I'd finished checking everything and created a detailed report of the shipment—what arrived, what was damaged, what was missing. I found Pearson in his office, a small room off the kitchen that was filled with paperwork and smelled like coffee.

"Here's the report," I said, placing it on his desk.

He picked it up, scanning through it with a critical eye. I stood there, waiting for him to find something to criticize. He always did.

"This is thorough," he said finally.

I blinked. "What?"

"The report. It's thorough." He looked up at me, and for a brief moment, there was no hostility in his eyes. Just acknowledgment. Then it was gone. "Don't expect praise every time you do your job adequately."

"Wouldn't dream of it," I said dryly.

"Good. Now, I need you to help with prep work in the kitchen. We're short-staffed today."

"I thought you said I wasn't allowed in the kitchen."

"Desperate times. Try not to poison anyone."

I followed him to the kitchen, where Marco was directing Lena and two line cooks with military precision. He looked up when we entered, and his expression immediately soured when he saw me.

"No," he said flatly.

"Marco—" Pearson started.

"No. I don't need some amateur in my kitchen during lunch service."

"She's not cooking. She's doing prep work. Chopping vegetables, basic tasks." Pearson's tone left no room for argument.

Marco's nostrils flared. "Fine. But if she slows us down, she's out."

He pointed me toward a station with a cutting board and several bins of vegetables. "Dice the onions, quarter-inch cuts. Slice the bell peppers, julienne the carrots. Think you can handle that?"

"Yes, chef," I said, keeping my voice neutral.

Marco grunted and turned back to his work. I washed my hands thoroughly and got started. The knife felt good in my hand—familiar. I'd done plenty of cooking over the years, especially after our parents died and I had to take care of Brodie. I wasn't a professional, but I knew my way around a kitchen.

I fell into a rhythm, my hands moving efficiently through the vegetables. Dice, slice, julienne. Dice, slice, julienne. It was meditative, in a way. I didn't have to think about Pearson or his insults or the impossible situation I'd found myself in. I just had to focus on the knife and the vegetables, and the repetitive motion.

"Not bad."

I looked up to find Lena watching me, a slight smile on her face. She was young, probably mid-twenties, with her dark hair pulled back in a tight bun and a dusting of freckles across her nose.

"Thanks," I said.

"Where'd you learn to cut like that?"

"Self-taught, mostly. I used to cook a lot for my brother."

"Well, you're faster than our last prep cook." She glanced toward where Marco was plating dishes. "Don't tell him I said that."

I smiled despite myself. "Your secret's safe with me."

Lena went back to her station, and I continued working. Around me, the kitchen hummed with activity—orders being called out, pans clattering, the sizzle of food hitting hot surfaces. It was chaotic but organized, a carefully orchestrated dance that everyone knew the steps to.

Except me. I was the outsider, the interloper who didn't belong.

"Isabella."

I looked up to find Pearson standing across from me, watching. I had no idea how long he'd been there.

"Yes?"

"We need more onions. Can you handle it?"

"Of course."

I finished the current batch and moved on to the next bin. Pearson didn't leave. He just stood there, watching me work with an intensity that made my skin prickle.

"Is there something else you need?" I asked finally.

"Just making sure you're not going to cut off a finger. Worker's comp is expensive."

"How thoughtful of you to care about the insurance costs."

His lips twitched, almost like he wanted to smile, but he caught himself. "Finish the prep and then you can leave. We don't need you for dinner service."

"Understood."

He walked away, and I released a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. Working in the kitchen was somehow more stressful than the storeroom, probably because I could feel everyone's eyes on me, judging, waiting for me to mess up.

But I didn't mess up. I finished all the prep work Marco assigned, cleaned my station, and was washing my hands when Lena approached me again.

"You did good today," she said quietly. "Marco won't say it, but I could tell he was impressed."

"Really?"

"Really. He only yells at people he thinks have potential. Everyone else he just ignores."

I laughed. "That's a weird way to show it."

"Yeah, well, chefs are weird." She hesitated. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Is it true? About you and Mr. Pearson's dad?"

My stomach dropped. "What have you heard?"

"Just... rumors. That you and the old Mr. Pearson were... close. And that's why he left you the restaurant." She looked uncomfortable. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked. It's none of my business."

"No, it's fine." I dried my hands on a towel, choosing my words carefully. "I never met Patrick Pearson. I have no idea why he left me part of the restaurant. But I promise you, whatever rumors you've heard, they're not true."

Lena studied my face, as if trying to determine whether I was lying. Finally, she nodded. "Okay. I believe you."

"Thank you."

"For what it's worth, I think Mr. Pearson—the younger one—is being too hard on you. You seem nice."

"Seems is the operative word," I said with a small smile. "You barely know me."

"True. But my gut's usually right about people." She glanced toward the office where Pearson had disappeared. "Give him time. He's not usually this much of an ass. He's just... dealing with a lot."

I wanted to argue that his grief didn't give him the right to treat me like garbage, but I held my tongue. Lena was trying to be kind, and I appreciated it.

"I should go," I said instead. "Thanks for the help today."

"Anytime."

I gathered my things and headed for the exit, but Pearson's voice stopped me.

"Isabella."

I turned to find him standing in the kitchen doorway. "Yes?"

"Tomorrow. 9 am. I need you to go through the financial records with Robert. We're trying to figure out where we're bleeding money."

"Okay."

"And Isabella?" His expression was unreadable. "You did adequate work today. Don't let it go to your head."

With that, he disappeared back into the kitchen. I stood there for a moment, wondering if that was the closest thing to a compliment I'd ever get from Alexander Pearson.

Probably.

I left The Seven and headed home, my body exhausted but my mind racing. Despite everything—the insults, the hostility, the constant reminders that I didn't belong—I'd actually enjoyed today. There was something satisfying about the work, about being useful, about contributing to something larger than myself.

My phone buzzed with a text from Brodie: Hired a lawyer. Meeting with him tomorrow. Thank you again, Bella. I love you.

I texted back a quick response, then collapsed on my couch. One day at a time. That's all I could do. Survive one day at a time and hope that eventually, things would get better.

They had to get better.

Because I wasn't sure how much longer I could endure Alexander Pearson's contempt before it broke me completely.