"And then he did this thing with his tongue that I swear to God should be illegal."
Scarlett's hands perform an interpretive dance that earns scandalized looks from the elderly couple two tables over who definitely didn't sign up for this level of lunchtime erotica.
Her dark curls bounce with each gesture, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of her glass. I push my salad around my plate, appetite nonexistent and thoughts somewhere else.
It’s been almost a week since the gala.
A week since Armand's proposition coiled around my throat like a noose.
A week of sleepless nights calculating numbers that refuse to add up with my pride and reality.
"Antonio has this accent, right? And when he whispers in Spanish while he's—" Scarlett pauses, noticing my untouched food. "Rae. You're not listening to my sexual revelations. This is unprecedented."
"Sorry." I force a smile. "The Spanish waiter. Illegal tongue maneuvers. I'm tracking."
"You're tracking nothing." She reaches across the table and steals my last fry. "But fine, we'll table my adventures in international relations to discuss your tragic situation with the three Greek gods you refuse to fuck."
The fry lodges in my throat. "Scarlett, Jesus."
"Don't 'Scarlett' me. I was at that gala, remember? Working the sommelier station like the wine goddess I am."
She leans forward, blue eyes gleaming with the intensity of someone about to deliver truth whether you ordered it or not.
"I saw your personal episode of The Bachelor: Kitchen Edition, Rae baby.”
"That's not—"
“Maxwell couldn't take his eyes off your ass in that dress. Like, the man forgot how to blink. It was medically concerning." She's on a roll now, unstoppable. “Jared nearly tripped over a senator because he was too busy staring at your tits. And Kobe? That man tracked your movements like a heat-seeking missile."
"You're exaggerating. They're my bosses and just were being polite."
"POLITE?" Scarlett laughs, sharp and incredulous. "Honey, polite is a handshake and a 'nice to see you.' What I witnessed was three men mentally undressing you while trying not to combust. There's a fucking difference."
I shake my head, the familiar cocktail of self-doubt and imposter syndrome rising like bile.
"I'm their sous chef, Letty. I'm literally the help. I'm nobody to them. Men like that don't want women like me."
"Women like you?" She looks personally offended. "You mean brilliant, gorgeous, hard-working women who can create edible art with their hands?"
"I mean they want sophistication and experience and confidence. I'm just the girl who works too hard and goes home to her deaf sister every night.”
I push my plate away, the salad now looking like green depression.
“Women who know what they're doing in bed and don't have Google search histories full of 'how to give a blowjob without dying.'"
"First of all, we all have that search history. That's just being prepared." Scarlett jabs a fry at me like a delicious weapon. "Second, when are you going to stop convincing yourself you're not worthy of good dick?"
"When reality stops proving me right."
The words come out sharper than intended when I lean forward.
"Maxwell is my direct supervisor. The power dynamic alone makes it an HR nightmare. Kobe is Jared’s celebrity cousin and flirts with potted plants—I'm not special, I'm just there. And Jared? He's ENGAGED, Scarlett. To an actual heiress. With a trust fund. And probably horses."
"Oh my God, ‘the engagement.’" She rolls her eyes so hard I'm concerned about retinal damage. "That arranged disaster? Jared's been postponing that wedding longer than George R.R. Martin's been postponing his next book. The man clearly doesn't want to marry Winifred. He finds excuses to postpone that wedding like it's his full-time job."
"Her name is Winnie."
"Her name is Irrelevant because he doesn't want her."
Scarlett starts counting on her fingers like she's presenting evidence in court.
"Exhibit A: He rearranged his entire schedule to be at the restaurant during your shifts. The hostess thinks he's micromanaging, but I know lovesick puppy behavior when I see it."
"That doesn't mean he wants me instead…"
"Exhibit B: Kobe has spent more time in that kitchen than any celebrity in history. The man has three movies filming and he's hanging around watching you julienne vegetables like it's performance art."
"He's just bored."
"Exhibit C: Maxwell nearly committed murder via glare when Jordan asked you out last month. The temperature dropped so fast we achieved nuclear winter. In June."
"Scarlett…"
"And Kobe being Jared's cousin? That's not even a real argument. Since when does family relation disqualify attraction? As for Maxwell, what could be more compatible than two chefs who share the same passion? You'd have foreplay conversations about sauce reductions."
Despite everything, a broken laugh escapes me. "You're insane."
"I'm right. Rae, you deserve to be happy. You deserve to feel wanted. You deserve to have someone look at you like you're their favorite meal and they've been starving for years."
Her expression softens, real concern bleeding through the theatrical delivery.
"These men want you so badly they're practically vibrating with it. The only person who can't see it is you."
My phone buzzes before I can respond, saving me from more truth bombs. The clinic's reminder flashes: Appointment in 30 minutes.
"I have to go." I gather my bag, movements jerky. "Doctor's appointment."
"For what?" Scarlett's playfulness vanishes instantly. "Rae, talk to me. Something's been off with you all week, and don't tell me it's pre-Michelin stress because I know better."
The concern in her voice cracks something open inside me.
The secret I've been carrying alone suddenly feels too heavy, too impossible to bear without sharing the weight.
"My mother stole my money." The words tumble out, raw and ragged. "Almost everything I saved for Elsie's surgery. Thirty-five thousand dollars. Gone."
"Oh, Rae.” Scarlett's face cycles through shock, rage, and heartbreak in rapid succession. “Oh, honey, no…"
"I've tried banks. Credit unions. Selling my soul on Craigslist. I've tried everything. I'm forty-five thousand short, and the surgical window closes in one month." My voice breaks on the last word. "I don't know what to do."
"I'll give you everything I have—"
"You don't have that kind of money, and I won't let you drain your accounts for me." I stand, needing to move before I shatter completely. "I'll figure it out. I always figure it out."
After long and warm hugs, Letty finally releases me from her arms and I head away.
The clinic waiting room smells like antiseptic and crushed dreams. Dr. Reeves calls me back with a sympathetic smile.
"I need to discuss the payment timeline." I grip the armrests of my chair. "Is there any way to postpone? Or pay the majority now and the remainder after the surgery?"
His face falls. "I wish I could accommodate that, Ms. Delacroix, but it's not possible. Full payment before surgery, or the implant goes to the next child on the list. Hospital policy."
"What happens if we miss this window?"
"Elsie returns to the waiting list." He removes his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "And given her age and younger children taking priority, it could be years before another opportunity."
Years.
The word echoes in my skull like a death knell.
"Please. She's been waiting for years. She's fourteen—every day she doesn't hear is a day of development lost… There has to be something you can do."
"I can extend the surgeon's schedule by a few days, perhaps a week at most. But beyond that, my hands are tied. It's standard procedure, and I don't have the authority to override it."
The word echoes in my skull like a death knell.
“I see,” I managed steadier than expected, “I’ll make sure the payment is gonna proceed in time then, thank you.”
I leave the clinic feeling hollowed out, like someone scooped out my insides and left the shell walking around pretending to be human.
How do I tell Elsie? How do I look at my baby sister and explain that her chance to hear—to really hear—is gone because our mother loved vodka more than her own children?
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out with numb fingers.
Armand Beaumont: I expect your answer by midnight. Don't disappoint me, Ms. Delacroix.
I stare at the message until the letters blur, until my hands shake so hard the phone nearly drops.
The math is simple. Brutal, but simple.
Option A: Tell Elsie her dreams are dead because I'm too proud to pay the price.
Option B: Become the kind of secret that powerful men keep, the kind of woman who trades herself for survival.
And I have until midnight to decide if I'm willing to pay the price.