At 3 a.m., I curled up in the nightclub’s breakroom, catching a nap before my shift ended. By 5 a.m., I had to set up my food stand for the office crowd’s breakfast rush.
Business was good as usual, and just as I was about to close up, another customer ordered fried rice.
“No scallions. More onions. Two eggs. And absolutely no shrimp—our boss is allergic to seafood.”
My hand froze mid-motion. That was exactly Adrian’s habit. He too was allergic to seafood.
I laughed bitterly. What was I even thinking?
I cooked quickly, plated the food, and handed it over.
As I packed up my cart and got on my motorbike, a voice stopped me.
“Did you make this fried rice?”
It was Adrian’s voice.
I pulled my mask higher and croaked a reply.
“Tastes good. Who taught you to cook like this?”
“My mom.”
He sneered. “Oh? Since when did my mom become your mom, Number 18?”
I lowered the brim of my cap and insisted he’d mistaken me for someone else.
“Sophia Bennett, you kept me for three years. Then you tossed me aside, ended it like it was nothing. Did you really think I was just your dog?”
I trembled. He had recognized me.