“At my age?” Her eyes narrowed and her voice found its edge again, which was both reassuring and irritating. “What do you know about what I need? Cooking is a passion, Christopher. It’s not something you hand off to the help.”
“I’m trying to take care of you, grandma.”
“Then take care of the company and let me take care of my kitchen.” She squeezed my hand. “You said you’d do it. Before I fell asleep. Did you mean it?”
I looked at her, then exhaled. “I meant it,” I said. “The meetings, the board, whatever you need. I’ll do it.”
Her eyes filled. She gripped my hand, and I let her. Even though receiving affection was a skill I’d never mastered. Even though physical closeness still made me want to pull away. The same way it had when I was a kid who learned that being touched usually meant being moved somewhere he didn’t want to go.
She fell back asleep holding my hand. I waited until her breathing evened out, then freed my fingers gently and stepped into the hallway.
Trisha was leaning against the opposite wall, shoes off, vending machine coffee in hand. Cold by now, probably.
“She okay?” Trisha asked.
“She’s fine. She’s upset about missing her cooking class.”
“Obviously. Priorities.” Trisha took a sip of the cold coffee and grimaced. “You know she didn’t really pass out.”
I leaned against the wall beside her. The corridor was quiet, the lights dimmed for the night shift.
“She put on quite a performance,” I said.
“Oscar-worthy. Where do you think you got it from?”
“Runs in the family, apparently.” I stared at the opposite wall. A motivational poster about hand-washing stared back.“Doesn’t matter if it was real. She won’t stop. She’s never stopped. But she’s also been the only person who fights for me, even when the fighting looks like…” I gestured toward the room where my grandmother was sleeping. “Emotional terrorism.”
“So you’re doing it,” Trisha said. “The company.”
“Yeah… I’m doing it.”
She didn’t ask about Prague. She didn’t need to.
We walked toward the elevator and I was wearing a hospital gown under the coat Trisha had brought from the car, which was not a look I’d be recommending to anyone.
“By the way, what happened to the chef?” I asked.
It was awkward to admit in front of Trisha, but I actually felt terrible about the chef.
I could still vaguely recall how frightened she looked while I was sprawled on the floor, struggling to breathe. Hate to admit it, but without her, I might not have made it. She'd acted before anyone else did, and those first few minutes mattered. The paramedics hadn't arrived nearly fast enough.
Honestly, I owed hermy life.
Trisha pulled up her tablet as we walked. “Social media turned her into a villain within hours. The story’s everywhere. ‘Chef poisons beloved actor Christopher Vale.’ Her name’s trending. Restaurant’s been vandalized. She’s done.”
I remembered her in fragments. Auburn hair. Hazel eyes. A chef’s coat that was too big for her. She’d said something ridiculous about being a fan of my face, while knocking over a salt shaker. I’d wanted to laugh, which almost never happened with strangers. She smelled like coconut and something citrusy.
“Her name?” I looked at Trisha.
Trisha checked the tablet. “Miley Torres. Twenty-five. Opened a place called Sazón three months ago. First-time business owner.” She looked up. “She’s the one who used the EpiPen. Saved your life, most likely.”
I processed this while we waited for the elevator.
The first step in stabilizing my image for the CEO transition was addressing this. Public accountability. Visible generosity. If I repaired the damage I caused, on camera and on record, it would position me as someone who owned his mistakes. The board would respect it. The press would eat it up. The narrative would flip from reckless to responsible, and I’d walk into that boardroom with a clean slate.
However, at the same time, I knew that wasn't the whole reason.
I wanted to helpher.
