"You're glowing again, and it's becoming a workplace hazard."
Scarlett corners me in the wine cellar three weeks after Elsie's discharge, her dark curls bouncing with the particular energy of someone about to deliver an intervention disguised as friendly conversation.
"I don't glow," I protest, though my reflection in the polished bottle rack suggests otherwise. "I'm just well-rested for the first time in approximately seven years."
"Well-rested." She snorts, grabbing a Burgundy for table twelve. "Is that what the kids are calling it these days? Because from where I'm standing, 'well-rested' looks suspiciously like 'getting thoroughly ravished by three gorgeous men on a rotating schedule.'"
Life has settled into a rhythm I never anticipated.
After-shift nights become our stolen moments—heat and hands and desperate kisses pressed against brick walls where no one can see.
Maxwell pulls me into the walk-in cooler for five minutes of stolen contact between courses. Kobe appears at the back exit with coffee and that devastating grin.
And Jared finds excuses to call me to his office, where the door locks and the blinds close and time dissolves into sensation.
"You've been covering for me," I say, because gratitude demands acknowledgment even when it makes my cheeks burn. "The hostess mentioned you've been redirecting questions about my schedule for weeks."
"Someone has to protect your secret life of debauchery from prying eyes."
Scarlett leans against the wine rack, her expression softening into genuine concern.
"But Rae, I need to say this again because you clearly weren't listening the first six times. Secrets this big always surface. It's not a matter of if, it's a matter of when."
"I know the risks."
"Do you? Because right now you're floating through service like someone who's discovered the meaning of life, and that kind of happiness is visible from space."
She grabs my arm, forcing eye contact.
"I love seeing you this content. Truly. But the higher you climb, the harder the fall, and you're scaling Everest without oxygen right now."
"What am I supposed to do, Letty? End things with all three of them because someone might eventually notice that I smile more than I used to?"
"No, you absolute disaster of a human being." She releases my arm with an exasperated sigh. "I'm saying be careful. Be smart. Watch your back, because not everyone in this restaurant wants you to succeed."
The warning lands heavier than she probably intended.
I think about Adrian's face when Maxwell praised my hollandaise last week. The way his jaw tightened, the way his eyes tracked my movements with something that went beyond professional rivalry.
"Speaking of people who want me to fail," I say quietly, "have you noticed anything weird with Adrian lately?"
"Weird how? Weird like his usual brand of toxic masculinity, or weird like something new and concerning?"
"The second one. He's been watching me during service, and not in the competitive way he used to. It feels more like surveillance."
Scarlett's expression darkens. "I've noticed. He asked me yesterday where you go after closing, and I told him you take the subway home like a normal person. He didn't seem satisfied with that answer."
The kitchen buzzes with pre-service energy when I return to my station. Line cooks prep their mise en place with mechanical precision. The scent of reducing stock and fresh herbs fills the air.
Everything looks normal, sounds normal, feels normal.
Except for Adrian, who leans against the prep counter directly across from me with his arms crossed and his eyes fixed on my face like he's trying to read a book written in a language he almost understands.
"Long break, Delacroix." His voice carries a sharp edge that makes the nearest line cook flinch. "Find something interesting in the wine cellar, or were you just avoiding actual work?"
"I was consulting with Scarlett about tonight's pairings," I reply evenly. "Chef Maxwell requested my input on the tasting menu coordination."
"Chef Maxwell." Adrian's laugh comes out bitter, acidic. "Funny how often your name comes up when he's handing out praise these days. Almost like you've found a shortcut to his good graces that the rest of us missed."
The insinuation lands like a slap. My hands still over the vegetables I'm supposed to be julienning, and rage flickers beneath my ribs before I force it down.
"My work speaks for itself, Adrian. If you're unhappy with your own progress, I suggest taking it up with someone who gives a damn about your feelings."
His eyes narrow into something predatory. "I've been watching you, you know. The way you disappear after service. The way the bosses look at you when they think no one's paying attention."
He pushes off the counter, stepping closer until I can smell the aggression radiating off him like cheap cologne.
"Something's going on, and I'm going to figure out what it is."
"There's nothing to figure out," I say, but my voice wavers slightly, and Adrian catches it like a shark scenting blood.
"We'll see about that." He returns to his station with the satisfied swagger of someone who's planted a flag in enemy territory. "I'm a patient man, Delacroix. I can wait."
The dinner service passes in a blur of plating and commands and the constant awareness of Adrian's gaze burning into my back. He takes notes on his phone between courses, documenting something I cannot see but can feel like a blade pressed against my throat.
Maxwell appears at my station near the end of service, his grey eyes sweeping over my work with professional assessment that shifts into something warmer when no one else is looking.
"Excellent execution tonight," he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear. "The beurre blanc was flawless."
"Thank you, Chef." I keep my voice neutral, professional, but my pulse quickens at his proximity. "Just following your specifications."
"We need to talk later." His hand brushes my elbow, so brief it could be accidental. "My office, after close."
Adrian watches the entire exchange from across the kitchen, and the smile that spreads across his face makes my stomach turn to ice.
The final desserts leave the pass at eleven forty-seven. I'm wiping down my station when Marcus, one of the newer servers, appears at my elbow with an expression caught somewhere between curiosity and concern.
"Hey, Raegan? Weird question, but did you notice anything off about table eight tonight?"
"Table eight?" I frown, trying to recall. "The couple who ordered the tasting menu? They seemed fine when I checked their plates."
"Yeah, that's the thing."
Marcus shifts his weight, glancing around like he's about to share classified information.
"The guy kept asking me really specific questions during service. Like, really specific. He wanted to know about our sourcing procedures, our kitchen protocols, our inspection schedules, our approach to consistency across dishes."
My hands freeze mid-wipe. "What kind of questions exactly?"
"The kind of questions a certain type of professional asks, you know?"
Marcus lowers his voice further.
"My buddy works at a three-star place in Brooklyn, and he said when their Michelin inspector came through, the questions sounded exactly like that. Super detailed, super technical, like someone who knows exactly what they're looking for."
The blood drains from my face.
The Michelin inspector might already be here.