Page 96 of Operation Sunshine
A staff joke. A ridiculous scheme to handle the boss who wasapparently too much for them. And Franco—dear God—Franco had played along.
He closed his eyes, trying to steady himself against the throb in his chest. He didn’t believe for a second Franco had been playing him. No way. What they’d had—what they’d shared in those last days—wasn’t something you could fake. He’d seen it in Franco’s eyes, felt it in every touch. That was real. It had to be.
But the rest of it—the knowledge that the people he trusted, the people he’d worked beside and defended and believed in—had thought so little of him they’d cook up something like this? That they’d laugh behind his back and set him up like some miserable punchline?
That cut deeper than he wanted to admit.
I thought I knew them. I thought I was part of a family.
And now?
He wasn’t sure if he could ever look at them the same way again.
His hand slipped from the doorknob, his fingers curling into a fist at his side. He went to his desk and dropped into the chair like a stone, the echo of Willow’s words following him like a shadow.
Operation Distracto.
Operation Sunshine.
It wasn’t only his relationship with Franco that had changed him—it was everything: the restaurant, the people, the very foundation he thought he was standing on.
Do I even belong here anymore?
One thing was certain. Ben was going to spend the rest of the day in his office, as far away from the staff as possible.
He had no clue what would come out of his mouth otherwise.
Ben let himself into his flat. It felt colder than usual, although maybe that was his mood distorting his senses. He didn’t bother with thelights, but dropped his keys in the bowl by the door and went straight to the couch, sinking down hard enough to make the springs groan.
The silence pressed against his ears. Normally, he’d put on the radio or the TV, just for the sound. Tonight, he wanted nothing, only him and the echo of voices he couldn’t stop replaying.
Operation Sunshine.
The phrase had looped through his head all day. Before this, he’d thought Willow’s teasing had been harmless, that Lexie’s barbs were just Lexie being Lexie. But all along, behind the laughter, behind the easy camaraderie—this.
He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and rubbed his face with both hands.
“God,” he whispered into the quiet. “What the hell am I even doing?”
Images slid unbidden through his mind. Franco in his kitchen, barefoot, laughing as he stole a forkful of pasta. Franco asleep on his chest, his hair falling across his brow. Franco whisperingBen, take me to bedin that voice that made Ben’s blood run hot.
Noneof that could have been fake. He knew it, right down to the marrow. And yet it had started as a joke. A scheme. Something to manage him, as if he was a problem to be solved rather than someone they respected.
He got up and walked over to the dark window, his own reflection staring hollowly back. If this was what his staff thought of him—if this was how little they trusted him—what was the point of holding on so tightly? Granted, he’d only poured months into that restaurant, but he’d also poured his sweat, his sanity, every ounce of fight he had.
And for what? To become the butt of a joke?
Ben’s jaw tightened. He could feel it, the itch to do something, to stop stewing and start acting.
An Exit Strategy. That’s what I need. An actual plan.
He’d sell the restaurant. It wasn’t impossible; hell, the place was profitable, and it had a decent reputation. With the right broker, it could move quickly enough. And with the proceeds… well, he could walk away clean. No messy confrontations, no begging for loyalty that should have been there all along.
The thought settled in his chest with a grim kind of relief. It hurt—God, it hurt—but at least it was something he could control.
He crossed the floor to his desk and flicked on the lamp. The light washed across neat stacks of bills, ledgers, letters. He pulled a pad of paper toward him and began to write.
— Contact solicitor re: valuation
