Chapter 0242


    His gaze finally breaks from mine, looking at anything but my face. “I was just checking something,” he


    says, his voice so low it’s a whisper.


    “Oh, you were ‘checking something?’” I echo, my tone chalk full of disbelief. “By switchingbels and


    possibly ruining our dish? Hm?”


    He opens his mouth, then closes it again, the perfect picture of guilt.


    “I was just…” He stammers, his voice trailing off.


    I can’t take it anymore. I’m getting those truffles—the real ck truffles, the ones that are balled up in


    his filthy little hand, about to be slipped into his pocket—for Abby, one way or another.


    Without entirely thinking of a n, I find myself lurching forward, fueled by anger and the adrenaline of


    thepetition, and snatch the truffles out of his hand.


    “You’re cheating!” I call out, loud enough for the others to hear. “Did Daniel put you up to this?”


    But then, as the trufflese into my possession, the sous chef’s face morphs into something


    unreadable, and suddenly, he’s cradling his wrist, howling in pain.


    “You wrenched my wrist! You hurt me!” he cries out.


    I stand there, truffles in hand, shocked. “I did no such thing! I didn’t even touch you!”


    His cries echo off the pantry walls, drawing eyes toward us like moths to a me. The room falls


    deathly silent, save for his usations. The camera swivels in our direction, eager to capture this


    drama for live television.


    “Look, everyone, I didn’t touch him! He’s lying!” I protest, holding out the truffles as evidence of his


    deceit. “He was swapping the ingredients. He took the ck truffles and—”


    But it’s toote; the narrative has shifted, and I can see it in the way their eyes change, how the


    whispers are starting to spread. The sous chef howls even louder, gripping his wrist as his face turns


    beet red.


    “Ow! O!” he wails, pacing back and forth. “God, I think he sprained my wrist! Ow!”


    A security guard, a hulking figure of authority, steps forward. “Sir, you need toe with me,” he says,


    jerking his head toward me.


    Abby’s face, once flushed with the heat of cooking, nches as she witnesses the scene. “Karl, what’s


    going on?” Her voice, filled with disbelief, reaches me even as I’m ushered away from the scene by the


    security guard.


    “I never touched him, Abby! He’s faking it!” The desperation in my voice does nothing to change the


    unfolding events.


    The security guard’s grip is firm on my arm, unyielding. “Let’s not make a scene, sir,” he says.


    “A scene? He made the scene! Look at the truffles!” I point toward the pantry, but it’s no use. No one is


    Please check at N/?vel(D)rama.Org.


    listening to me. Why would they? They just think I’m an animal, violent, an asshole who attacked an


    innocent man over mushrooms.  NovelDrama.Org


    Abby’s eyes, wide and filled with a cocktail of confusion and fear, stay locked on mine as I’m pulled


    away.


    Sabotage.