May's day had started with the calm routine that had become her solace—breakfast followed by her usual morning call with Lucien, a comforting rhythm that helped her feel grounded. Their conversations, often tender and familiar, felt like an anchor amid her life's upheaval. She was grateful for him, more than she could express, especially now that she'd regained her strength and returned to work.
But returning to work wasn't as smooth as she'd hoped. As she stepped into the restaurant staff room, the whispers were there—the stares, the hushed voices that followed her around the halls. It stung, but May reminded herself she had fought harder battles and would get through this one too.
One bright morning, May put on her uniform, smoothing the expensive fabric against her sides before stepping out of the changing room. She was alone today, the last to leave, and a prickle of unease ran down her spine when she turned to find the manager blocking the doorway. His eyes, the way they lingered over her, made her skin crawl. She'd always been careful to avoid being alone with him, sensing his uncomfortable stares, but today, she had miscalculated.
"You've been slacking, May," he sneered, his tone almost playful, but his gaze was anything but.
Trying to keep her voice steady, she replied, "I'm sorry, sir. I was unwell. I'll come to your office once I'm finished here."
But he didn't move. Instead, a twisted smile spread across his face as he leaned closer. "I don't mind waiting here."
Before she could step back, he reached out, brushing a hand through her hair, taking a deep, exaggerated breath. "You smell... really, really good, May. I've been watching you."
Revulsion flared in her chest, and instinct took over. She shoved him with all her strength, catching him off guard and sending him stumbling against the wall. But he reacted quickly, grabbing her wrist, yanking her so hard that she tripped and fell, her head hitting the edge of the bench. Pain flared, and she felt the warmth of blood trickling down her temple.
Summoning what strength she had left, she clawed at his face, leaving a red mark across his cheek. Breaking free, she bolted out of the changing room, stumbling through the kitchen. Milo, her friend and one of the chefs, saw her and rushed over, his face a mix of concern and alarm.
"May! Hold on," he called, catching up as she started to sway, her vision going hazy.
Her breathing grew shallow, and as her legs gave way, she heard Milo's voice rising in Italian, urgent and fast, speaking to someone on the phone. But then, everything faded to black.
