Chapter 10 Ten

Chapter 10 Ten
The next three days passed in a blur of preparation for the critic's visit. Marco was even more intense than usual, perfecting every dish, tasting and retasting until he was satisfied. The entire staff was on edge, and I did my best to stay out of the way.

True to Pearson's orders, I kept to the back of the house. I organized the dry storage area, updated inventory lists, and helped with prep work when Marco grudgingly allowed it. I didn't complain. Being invisible was easier than enduring Pearson's contempt.

On the day of the critic's visit, I arrived early. The restaurant wouldn't open until 5 pm for dinner service, but Pearson had asked me to come in at noon to help with final preparations. When I walked in, I found him in the dining room, adjusting table settings with an almost obsessive attention to detail.

"Is everything okay?" I asked.

He looked up, startled, as if he'd forgotten I was coming. "The silverware is tarnished. How did no one notice the silverware is tarnished?"

I looked at the utensils he was holding. They looked perfectly fine to me, but I could see the tension in his shoulders, the slight tremor in his hands.

"I'll polish them," I offered.

"You know how to polish silver?"

"My mother was very particular about these things. I know how."

He hesitated, then handed me the silverware. "Fine. But do it properly. I don't want any water spots or streaks."

I took the utensils to the kitchen and got to work. Lena found me there twenty minutes later, elbow-deep in silver polish.

"You didn't have to do that," she said. "We have a service for the silver."

"Mr. Pearson was stressed. It was easier to just do it."

Lena leaned against the counter, watching me work. "He's terrified, you know. Of the critic."

"I gathered that."

"The review last year nearly destroyed this place. She called the food 'uninspired' and the service 'indifferent.' Reservations dropped by sixty percent in a month." Lena sighed. "Mr. Pearson—the old one—he was already sick by then. It broke his heart."

I paused in my polishing. "That must have been hard on Alexander."

"It was. He blamed himself for not being here more, for letting things slip." Lena picked up a towel and started helping me dry. "He's not always like this, you know. Before his father got sick, he was actually pretty great to work for. Demanding but fair. Even fun sometimes."

I tried to imagine Alexander Pearson as fun and failed completely.

"I know he's been awful to you," Lena continued. "But I think... I think he's scared. Of losing this place, of failing his father's memory. And you're an easy target for all that fear."

"That doesn't make it okay."

"No, it doesn't. I'm just saying... maybe try to have a little patience with him."

I wanted to argue that I'd been nothing but patient, that I'd endured insult after insult without complaint. But Lena meant well, so I just nodded and went back to polishing.

By 4 pm, everything was ready. The dining room was spotless, the silverware gleamed, and Marco's kitchen ran like a well-oiled machine. The staff gathered for a brief meeting, and Pearson went over the plan for the evening.

"Samantha Rodriguez has a reservation at 7 pm. She'll be dining with one guest. Robert will be managing her table personally." He looked around at the assembled staff. "I want perfection tonight. Every dish, every interaction, every detail. Are we clear?"

A chorus of "Yes, chef" and "Yes, sir" filled the room.

Pearson's gaze landed on me. "Isabella, you'll be in the office. If you need anything, text Robert. Do not come into the dining room for any reason."

"Understood."

The staff dispersed, and I retreated to the office as instructed. I'd brought my laptop, thinking I could work on marketing ideas for the restaurant. But I found myself too anxious to focus, listening to the sounds of the dinner service through the closed door.

At 7:15 pm, my phone buzzed with a text from Lena: She's here. Wish us luck.

I texted back a quick Good luck and tried to go back to work. But every few minutes, I found myself checking my phone, waiting for updates that didn't come.

At 8:30 pm, Brodie called.

"Hey, Bella."

"Hey. How did the meeting with the lawyer go?"

"Good. Really good, actually. He thinks we have a strong case." Brodie paused. "The prosecution's evidence is mostly circumstantial. If we can create reasonable doubt, there's a good chance I walk."

Relief flooded through me. "That's great, Brodie."

"Yeah. Thanks to you." His voice was thick with emotion. "I know I don't say it enough, but I really am grateful. For everything. Not just the money, but... everything. All these years."

I felt my eyes prickle with tears. "You're my brother. Of course I'd help you."

"I'm going to pay you back, Bella. Every cent. And I'm going to get my life together. I promise."

"I believe you," I said, even though I wasn't sure I did.

We talked for a few more minutes before hanging up. I sat in the quiet office, staring at my phone, hoping desperately that Brodie meant it this time. That this would finally be the wake-up call he needed.

A knock on the door startled me. Robert poked his head in, looking flustered.

"Isabella, I need your help."

"What's wrong? Is it the critic?"

"No, she's fine. But we have another situation. A couple at table six—they're celebrating their anniversary and the wife has a severe shellfish allergy. She's accusing us of cross-contamination because she's having a reaction."

My heart sank. "Is she okay?"

"She used her EpiPen and she's stable, but they're furious and threatening to post about it on social media. Alexander is with the critic and can't leave, and Marco is having a meltdown in the kitchen." Robert looked desperate. "You said you were good with people. Can you help?"

I hesitated. Pearson had explicitly told me to stay out of sight. But this was an emergency.

"Okay. Let me talk to them."

I followed Robert into the dining room, acutely aware that I was defying Pearson's direct order. The couple at table six looked furious—the husband was holding his wife's hand while she sat pale and shaken.

I approached their table carefully. "Hi, I'm Isabella Long, one of the owners. I'm so sorry about what happened. Are you feeling alright?"

The wife nodded weakly. "I'm okay now. But I specifically told the server about my allergy. I ordered the chicken because it was supposed to be safe."

"May I see your plate?"

She pushed it toward me, and I examined it carefully. The chicken looked fine, but there was a garnish I recognized—a lemon aioli that Marco sometimes made with anchovy paste.

"I think I know what happened," I said. "The aioli on your chicken contains anchovy, which is a fish product that can trigger shellfish allergies in some people. Our server should have caught that, and I'm deeply sorry they didn't."

The husband's expression softened slightly. "So it was a mistake?"

"A completely unacceptable mistake, but yes. There was no cross-contamination with your entrée. However, that doesn't excuse the fact that we nearly put your wife in serious danger." I pulled out my phone. "I'd like to comp your entire meal, of course. And if you're willing, I'd also like to send you a gift certificate for a future visit, after we've retrained all our staff on allergy protocols."

The wife looked surprised. "You're not going to argue with us?"

"Why would I? You told us about your allergy, and we failed you. That's on us, not you." I met her eyes. "I know this probably ruined your anniversary dinner, and I can't undo that. But I'd like to try to make it right, if you'll let me."

The couple exchanged glances. Finally, the husband nodded. "We appreciate that. And we appreciate you being honest about what happened."

"Would you like Marco, our head chef, to prepare something else for you? Something we can guarantee is completely safe?"

The wife shook her head. "I think I just want to go home, honestly. This scared me."

"Of course. Let me get your coats."

I handled the rest of the situation quickly—comping their meal, arranging for a car service to take them home, and getting their contact information to send the gift certificate and a formal apology letter. By the time they left, they seemed more mollified than angry.

But when I turned around, I found Alexander standing behind me, his face dark with fury.

"My office. Now."

I followed him, my stomach churning. He didn't say a word until we were behind closed doors. Then he rounded on me.

"What the hell were you thinking?"

"There was an emergency. Robert needed help."

"I told you to stay out of sight. One simple instruction, Isabella. And you couldn't even follow that."

"A woman almost died because of our negligence. I wasn't going to hide in the office while Robert tried to handle it alone."

"You weren't supposed to handle anything! You were supposed to stay hidden so the critic wouldn't see you and start asking questions about who the hell you are and why you own half my father's restaurant!"

"Did she see me?"

He paused. "What?"

"The critic. Did she see me?"

"No, but that's not the point—"

"Then what's the problem? I helped diffuse a potential PR disaster. That couple was threatening to blast us on social media, and now they're not. In fact, they seemed grateful by the time they left."

"The problem is that you defied a direct order."

"To help the restaurant!"

"You don't get to make that decision!" His voice rose, and I could see the stress of the evening written all over his face. "You don't get to just do whatever you want because you think you know better. This is my father's restaurant, not yours."

"Actually, according to the will, it's half mine."

The words were out before I could stop them. Pearson's face went white, then red.

"Don't," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "Don't you dare throw that will in my face. You have no idea what this place means to me, what my father meant to me. You're just some woman who wormed her way into his life when he was vulnerable, and now you think you have any right—"

"I never met your father!" I shouted, my own composure finally breaking. "How many times do I have to say it before you believe me? I never met him, I never slept with him, I never manipulated him. I don't know why he left me part of this restaurant, but I'm trying my best to honor his wishes and help this place succeed. And all you do is insult me and demean me and treat me like I'm some kind of criminal!"

"Because you are!" he shot back. "Maybe not legally, but morally. You took something that wasn't yours. You took my father's legacy—"

"He gave it to me! I didn't take anything!"

We were both breathing hard, standing too close, the air between us crackling with anger and something else I didn't want to name.

"Get out," Pearson said finally. "Go home. I don't want to see you for the rest of the night."

"Fine." I grabbed my bag and headed for the door.

"Isabella."

I stopped but didn't turn around.

"Don't come in tomorrow. Take the day off. I need a break from you."

The words stung more than they should have. I left without responding, my eyes burning with unshed tears.

Outside, the night air was cold against my flushed skin. I walked to the bus stop and sat down on the bench, finally letting the tears fall. I'd done the right thing tonight. I knew I had. But it didn't matter. Nothing I did would ever be right in Alexander Pearson's eyes.

My phone buzzed. A text from Lena: The critic loved everything. She's coming back next week for a follow-up. We did it!

I should have felt happy. Relieved. Instead, I just felt empty.

I texted back: That's great. Congrats.

The bus came, and I got on, staring out the window at the city lights blurring past. Eleven more months. Somehow, I had to survive eleven more months of this.

I wasn't sure I could.