Chapter 3 - The Gathering Storm Upstairs
While Brielle stood paralyzed in the subterranean quiet of Everett’s office, the atmosphere in the main kitchen and service hallway upstairs had reached a boiling point.
Rochelle Pierce was pacing near the expediting station, tapping her manicured nails against the stainless-steel counter. She had already placed two calls: one to Marcus Vance, Brielle’s smooth-talking, chronically unemployed ex-fiancé, and another to Eleanor Vance, Marcus’s formidable, hyper-wealthy matriarch who treated the local family court like her personal playground.
“She brought an infant into a commercial kitchen during dinner service,” Rochelle announced to Chef Armand, who was aggressively chopping shallots with a carbon-steel knife. “It’s a health code violation of the highest order. The health department would shut us down in ten seconds if they knew.”
Chef Armand didn’t stop chopping. He spoke without looking up. “Brielle is the hardest worker on this floor, Rochelle. She works double shifts without complaint, and her station is cleaner than your conscience. Leave the girl alone.”
“My loyalty is to the corporate standard, Armand, not to charity cases who can’t keep their legs closed or their finances in order,” Rochelle snapped, tossing her hair over her shoulder.
Before Armand could retort, the heavy glass doors of the restaurant’s main entrance swung open with an aggressive push.
Marcus Vance strode in, wearing a designer leather jacket that was far too warm for Seattle’s damp evening air. Right behind him marched his mother, Eleanor Vance, her silver hair lacquered into an unmovable helmet, her mink stole brushing against the host stand like a warning flag.
“Where is she?” Eleanor demanded, her voice cutting through the ambient clatter of silverware and jazz music. “Where is that incompetent little tramp hiding my granddaughter?”
Rochelle rushed forward, a sycophantic smile plastered across her face. “Mrs. Vance! Marcus! Thank goodness you got here so quickly. She’s downstairs. She had the audacity to sneak the baby into Mr. Calloway’s private office area—a restricted zone no employee is even allowed to breathe near.”
Marcus sneered, sliding his hands into his pockets. “I knew she couldn’t handle motherhood. The second things got tough, she cracked. This is it. This is the evidence we need to prove she’s an unfit mother and get full, unmonitored custody of Elodie once and for all.”
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Eleanor’s eyes gleamed with malicious triumph. “Motherhood is wasted on the poor, Rochelle. My son deserves a stable home for that child, not a rat-infested studio apartment where the electricity blinks out every time it rains. Come along, Marcus. Let’s go collect my grandchild and remind Miss Dawson just how little power she actually has.”
As Eleanor and Marcus marched toward the service hallway, followed closely by a grinning Rochelle, Chef Armand dropped his knife, wiped his hands on a clean towel, and quietly reached for his phone. There were some lines even a kitchen veteran wouldn’t let people cross.
