Chapter 17: Part 1 - Witnessing Chris getting Handfed Cake

= Sarah POV =

I woke up to the sound of my phone buzzing. Blinking against the light, I reached for it, only to find my vision too blurry to make out the messages. As I fumbled to unlock the screen, sleep tugged me back under, and I drifted off with the phone still in my hand.

A few hours later, I stirred again, this time to the familiar vibration of my phone ringing softly against the sheets. I must have silenced it at some point, leaving only the gentle hum to rouse me.

I sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and glanced at the time. Two hours until my shift.

Throwing off the covers, I crossed the room to my wardrobe and quickly picked out an outfit—a soft cream-colored long-sleeve top, a short pleated brown skirt, and black leggings. After laying everything out, I stepped into the bathroom for a shower.

Once dressed, I twisted my hair into a loose bun and sat at my dresser to apply makeup—just enough to brighten my face without standing out.

Grabbing my purse, I hurried out of the apartment and headed toward the café.

As I walked down the street, I finally took a moment to check my messages.

Chris had texted about working the midnight shift. I couldn't help but feel a small burst of pride for her. It was great to see that she'd worked things out with Ms. Jun and managed to land the placement so quickly.

Of course, it probably didn't hurt that Ms. Jun and Chris had a solid working relationship. Despite how Ms. Jun and Chris didn't see eye to eye sometimes, she clearly admired Chris. That likely gave Chris an edge over the competition.

I checked my watch—still an hour before my shift.

Perfect.

Maybe I'd stop by the kitchen, surprise Chris, and congratulate her. It felt like the right thing to do.

We weren't as close as we used to be, but that didn't mean I couldn't celebrate her wins. After all, a quick "well done" was just common courtesy between acquaintances.

Right?

I entered the café and slipped through the door behind the coffee bar, my heart thrumming softly in my chest. The kitchen smelled of warm bread and roasted spices, wrapping around me like a familiar comfort.

The room was mostly deserted except for a handful of chefs at the far end, moving with practiced precision as they set trays of dough to rise and chopped fresh ingredients for the day's recipes.

I scanned the space, searching for Chris.

There—near the prep stations.

Her broad shoulders and neatly tied black hair, tucked beneath a hairnet, made her instantly recognizable even from across the room. She was talking to Ms. Jun, whose sharp gestures and pinched expression suggested she wasn't in the best of moods.

I picked up my pace, weaving carefully between tables and carts, hoping to catch Chris before she got too busy to talk.

But before I could call out to her, Ms. Jun turned and stormed off, leaving Chris standing there, looking slightly exasperated.

That's when it happened.

The swinging doors leading to the pastry kitchen burst open, and a curvy, radiant chef emerged, holding something chocolaty and delicate on a small plate. She looked effortlessly confident, her cheeks flushed as though she'd just come from the heat of the ovens—or perhaps something else entirely.

I stepped back instinctively, not wanting to be in the way of the bustling kitchen staff. My stomach fluttered uneasily.

The next moments unfurled in slow motion.

The woman approached Chris with a beaming smile, saying something I couldn't quite hear over the faint hum of the ovens and clinking of pans.

Then—without hesitation—she pressed the food into Chris's open mouth.

My breath caught.

Chris—stoic, unflappable Chris—actually let her do it. She didn't even flinch. Instead, she leaned in slightly, chewing thoughtfully, her expression softening as though savoring more than just the food.

And the chef? She giggled.

A light, musical sound that sent ice sliding down my spine.

I took another step back, my shoes barely making a sound against the tiled floor, but the tension in my chest was deafening.

What was I seeing?

It felt…intimate. Too intimate.

My hands curled into fists at my sides as I tried to convince myself it didn't mean anything. This was Chris, after all. Chris, who always knew how to charm people effortlessly, who could make anyone feel like the center of her world, if only for a moment.

But my thoughts spiralled.

What if this wasn't just a one-off? What if Chris had already been swept up in flirtations like this back at the hotel—countless encounters I never knew about?

I shook my head, trying to dismiss the poisonous thoughts, but the image of Chris and the chef lingered, burning itself into my mind.

I suddenly felt small and out of place, like I didn't belong here.

I turned to leave, desperate to slip away unnoticed, but my shoulder clipped the edge of a metal cart.

The world seemed to tilt.

The cart groaned and tipped.

Before I could react, trays of proofed dough tumbled down in slow motion—soft mounds collapsing onto the floor, the wet slap echoing in my ears.

And then—

I slipped.

The floor came up fast, cold and sticky as dough smeared across my skirt, my leggings, my hands.

For a moment, I just sat there, frozen in horror as the ruined lumps of dough stuck to my skin, gluing me to the tiles.

A flurry of motion surrounded me. Two figures loomed overhead.

"Sarah?" Chris's voice rang out, sharp and incredulous.

I tried to focus, blinking through the tears and flour dust stinging my eyes. My hands fumbled to peel the sticky mess off my clothes, but every movement only smeared it further.

"I—I'm sorry—" I choked out, my voice breaking.

"Really Sarah," Chris snapped, and this time her words cut straight through me. "They spent all night making these. You should be more careful where you're walking!"

I flinched.

The heat of her words burned through me, louder than the ringing in my ears, louder than the blood pounding behind my temples.

I couldn't stop the tears this time. They spilled over, hot and humiliating, streaking my flour-covered cheeks and turning to sludge as they mixed with the grime on my skin.

I barely registered the other voice—softer, kinder—until gentle hands touched my arms.

"It's okay, it's okay. Don't cry, sweetheart."

I looked up, blinking through the blur—and saw her.

Marylin.

The stunning chef.

Chris's ex.

Her soft brown eyes were full of concern as she bent down to help me up, brushing at my skirt as if she could fix this.

"Let me help," she murmured.

I wanted to scream.

Of course it was her. Of course.

The woman who looked like she belonged in Chris's world—the kitchens, the chaos, the effortless confidence.

And there I was.

Clumsy. Messy. Completely out of place.

Chris's sharp words rang in my ears again, twisting deeper into my chest.

I yanked my arm free, scrambling to stand even as my legs wobbled.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled, my voice cracking.

"Sarah, wait—"

But I was already moving.

I stumbled out of the kitchen, half-blind with tears, my hands trembling as I pushed through the doors and into the café.

The stinging flour clung to my skin, but it couldn't drown out the ache rising in my throat.

I had to get out. Away from Chris. Away from Marylin. Away from this whole humiliating disaster before I completely fell apart.