The moment the guests arrived, the restaurant changed.
It wasn’t loud chaos—no shouting, no running, no clattering panic.
It was worse.
It was silent chaos.
The kitchen doors swung open and shut with controlled precision, the usual chatter dying instantly. No jokes. No snide remarks. No smug laughter from the waiters who usually looked down on her like she was dirt under their shoes.
Every movement became deliberate.
Every breath measured.
You could taste the tension in the air, metallic and sharp, clinging to the back of the throat.
Iva kept her head down at her station, hands moving automatically as muscle memory took over. Rinse. Scrub. Stack. Repeat. Her world narrowed to porcelain, steel, and steaming water—but even that couldn’t drown out the oppressive weight pressing agains
