Page 84 of Only Mine
“Fine.” I tie on my apron with sharp movements. “Where are we on the Henderson anniversary order?”
“Chocolate soufflé’s ready to go. Just needs your final touch.”
I nod, falling into the rhythm of knife work. This, at least, makes sense. Blade meets board, ingredients transform, and order emerges from a complete mess. No complications. No pink-haired women who smell like sun-soaked vacations and make me forget why feeling nothing is safer.
“I heard that new girl in town, Wrenley something, moved into the apartment above Cornerstone Books.”
My knife slips enough to send a carrot rolling across the board.
“It’s not often we see a new face that’s not an annoying tourist,” the garde manger continues. A young guy with plenty of pimples. “And she’s hot.”
“Sofucking hot,” the saucier chimes in.
“You’ve seen her content?”
“Wait, what?”
“Dude! She’s on social media. She’s like an influencer or some shit. Has two million followers. Or I should say, had. Have you seen the video that went viral?”
“What are you talking about?”
They’re huddled by the cold station, thinking I’m absorbed in my prep. The lunch rush hasn’t hit yet, that twenty-minute window when discipline loosens slightly. They’ve got a phone out between them, heads bent together like teen boys.
“Here, look.” The garde manger angles his phone. “This was from three weeks ago. Twenty million views.”
I should cut them off at the knees right fucking now. There’s no gossip in my kitchen, and there sure as fuck is noidle talk about Wrenley Morgan. But their revelations don’t come as a surprise.
Of course I’d done my research on Wrenley before letting her near Ivy. Found her social media, saw the follower count and the sponsored posts. She had two million people watching her curated life. I’d scrolled back through months of content with her bright smiles, perfect outfits, and multiple “latest hot spot” posts.
Then nothing. Six months of radio silence until three weeks ago.
But when I’d clicked on that most recent post, it was gone.This content is no longer available.The comments below were turned off. Whatever had happened three weeks ago, she’d scrubbed it clean.
I’d screenshot her profile, done a background check, and verified she had no criminal record. That was enough due diligence for a temporary fix while I found a real nanny, and with Celeste’s assurance that Wrenley’s online drama was long finished, I’d trusted my gut.
Except now my garde manger has it pulled up on his phone.
“My girlfriend screen-recorded it before Wrenley deleted everything. She saves all the influencer drama.”
“Jesus, is she crying?”
“Full breakdown, man. She was trying to film a ‘life update.’ Look.”
The phone’s volume is too high. Another indication that I should make these idiots shit their pants for their insubordination before this goes any further. But I don’t move because curiosity doesn’t just kill cats.
Wrenley’s voice fills my kitchen in a shaking, guttural tone I’ve never heard come out of her mouth.
“I know everyone’s been asking where I’ve been for months. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.” Her voice is thick with tears. “I tried to come back. Tried to be normal. But I…”
A sob cuts through. The sound ignites a wildfire in my throat, and my head shoots up, staring holes into the staff huddled around the phone.
“In Miami, some guy got my hotel key. Paid off a desk clerk. Two thousand dollars to get into my room.” Her breath comes in gasps. “I woke up to him straddling me. His hands in my hair. His tongue?—”
My knife drives into the cutting board with enough force to split wood.
“When I screamed, he wrapped his hands around my throat. Told me I’d been teasing him for three years. That every good morning video was meant for him. That I owed him for all the times he defended me in the comments section.”
The rage building inside me is volcanic. Murderous.
