Page 140 of Neap & Spring

I want to fix it.

But I can hear the kitchen through the door — Amara calling out orders, the pandemonium of service still happening.

“I have to go.” The words feel like glass in my throat.

“I know. Go.” She pulls her hand from mine, wrapping her arms around herself. “Go finish service. It’s going to be perfect.”

I hesitate for one more second, torn between staying and going, then turn and stumble through the door into the heat and noise before I can talk myself out of it.

Amara looks up when I come in. “She okay?”

“She will be.” I move to my station, assessing what needs to happen. “Where are we?”

“Last six plates of duck going out now. Ready to start fifth course on your word.”

I take a breath, pushing everything else down. Vivienne. The panic attack. The pain in her eyes. All of it gets locked away in a box I’ll open later because right now, I have a job to do.

“Let’s finish this,” I say.

We plate the final course — Cora’s brown sugar pear tart with vanilla bean ice cream, candied walnuts, and chocolate drizzle.

It’s beautiful.

The last plate goes out at nine fifteen.

The kitchen goes quiet, the sudden absence of noise almost painful after hours of madness.

Amara leans against her station, wiping sweat from her forehead. Marcus is slumped on a stool. Cora looks like she might cry from exhaustion and relief.

“We did it,” she says, almost disbelieving.

“Yeah.” I look around at the chaos — the dirty pans, the empty stations, the evidence of perfect plates sent out despite everything else. “We really did.”

Frannie bursts through the door. “Chef! They’re asking for you. All of you. They want to meet the team.”

I look down at my whites. They’re stained with sauce. My hands are shaking slightly from the adrenaline crash.

But I nod and we file out into the dining room together. The guests break into applause. My family is on their feet, Dad grinning so wide his face might split. The investors are standing too, Brad already pulling out his phone to take photos.

I search the room for Vivienne.

She’s standing in the back, near the windows overlooking the ocean. She’s cleaned up her makeup, but I can still see the redness around her eyes. Her arms are crossed over her chest like she’s holding herself together.

When our eyes meet, she smiles. It’s small and shaky and doesn’t quite reach her eyes, but it’s there.

I want to go to her. I want to pull her aside and make sure she’s really okay.

But Dad is pulling me into a hug, and Wesley is clapping me on the back, and Beckett is saying something about the duck being the best thing he’s ever eaten, and the investors are shaking Amara’s hand, and everyone wants to talk about the food and the service and how incredible everything was.

And through it all, Vivienne stays in the back.

Watching.

Still there, but barely.

Already half-gone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE