Chapter 4

The bell above Hearth & Grain's side door chimed as I pushed it open at six in the morning.

The bakery was already warm, smelling of caramelized yeast and hot sugar, but the front display cases were still empty.

Mateo stood by the massive iron mixer, his forearms dusted with white flour.

He looked up, his expression guarded, wiping his hands on a rag tucked into his belt loops.

"How much corn?" Mateo asked.

"Forty pounds."

He looked at the sacks by my feet.

"Mill's free until eight. Thirty bucks."

I reached for my wallet, counting out the bills onto the counter.

As I slid the cash across the stainless steel, I hesitated.

"Mateo... about what happened two years ago—"

"Not at six in the morning," he interrupted, turning back to the mixer.

I didn't press it.

I hauled my grain to the small industrial stone mill, ground the corn into a clean, uniform meal, and packed it into food-safe bins.

When I carried them out to my car, I caught a glimpse of an old framed photograph hanging near the back office door—a snapshot from a local artisan food fair three years prior, showing a younger, exhausted version of me standing next to the prep table, with Marcus grinning front and center.

I looked away, loaded the bins into my sedan, and drove back toward the night market.

At four in the afternoon, Nia called me while I was unloading the plastic tubs by the pavilion's service elevator.

"Sienna," Nia's voice crackled over the line, laced with dry amusement.

"Your brother's truck is parked square across the main service lane."

My hands froze over a crate of peppers.

"Can security move him?"

"Not until his slot's up. Forty minutes."

I looked at the towering stack of crates waiting by the lift.

"Of course he picked today."

There was no grand speech.

Maya arrived twenty minutes later in a faded denim jacket, took one look at the boxes blocking our path, and just sighed.

"Tell me we aren't taking the service stairs," Maya said.

"Five flights," I replied, grabbing the handles of the bottom crate.

"Grab the other end."

We carried the produce, the portable induction burners, the folding tables, and fifty mismatched plates Nia's warehouse had dug out of a storage locker—white, gray, chipped at the rims, none of them matching.

Midway up the third flight, the old oil burn on the back of my hand scraped against a rough wooden corner, sending a sharp, hot sting up my arm.

I hissed through my teeth, my temper flaring.

"Are you okay?" Maya asked, pausing on the landing, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

"Just move," I snapped, the exhaustion and panic pressing down on my chest.

"We're already behind schedule."

Maya stopped, the harsh echo of my own voice bouncing off the concrete walls.

She set her end of the crate down on the concrete step, crossed her arms, and looked at me.

"Hey. I'm here to cook, Sienna. I'm not here to be your punching bag."

I stopped, the frustration in my throat melting into a heavy, hollow shame.

"Sorry," I muttered, rubbing my forehead with the back of my forearm.

"That wasn't yours."

Maya watched me for a second, her expression softening just a fraction.

Then she bent back down and re-gripped the wooden crate.

"I know. Grab the other end."

By six o'clock, the portable burners were hissing, the masa was pressed into flat, imperfect tortillas on the hot iron, and the first wave of thirty people were trickling into the concrete-and-brick pavilion.

There were no cameras and no food bloggers.

Just thirty strangers sitting at bare wooden high-tops lit by string lights.

I stood behind the prep counter, my hands slick with masa and lime juice, firing the first round of short ribs.

When the first plate went out to a table near the back, the middle-aged couple sitting there didn't immediately react.

The woman took a bite, chewed slowly, and didn't say a word.

For three terrifying seconds, I stared across the pass, wondering if the seasoning was off.

Then she pushed the plate toward her husband.

"Try this."

The man took a bite.

He paused, his eyes widening slightly.

"Oh."

Within ten minutes, the rhythm took over.

The ambient noise of the room shifted from polite murmurs to the rhythmic clinking of cutlery and low, enthusiastic conversation.

Halfway through the service, Maya rushed back to the pass, wiping her forehead with a towel.

"Table six wants to know if you sell the sauce by the jar," Maya whispered, breathless.

"We do," I said automatically, before my brain caught up with my mouth.

Maya stopped, her eyebrows rising.

"Do we?"

I looked down at the empty stainless-steel bowl where the glaze had been, then up at Maya.

A genuine, breathless laugh escaped my throat.

"Not yet."

By nine o'clock, the last guest paid, the plates were cleared, and the pavilion finally went quiet.

I sat down hard on a plastic milk crate near the corner of the prep station, my legs shaking with a deep, bone-weary fatigue.

Maya was sitting a few feet away, methodically stacking the mismatched gray and white plates into neat piles.

Nia walked over, holding a cold bottle of sparkling water, and dropped it into my lap.

"Nobody asked for a refund," Nia said, leaning against the counter.

I managed a tired smile, popping the cap.

"High praise."

"For a first night? It is," Nia said, giving me a rare, approving nod before walking away to check the lock on the service door.

I took a slow sip of the cold water.

Around me were thirty dirty plates, three empty sauce bowls, and one scarf somebody had forgotten over the back of a chair.

For the first time all week, nothing needed fixing right this second.

My phone buzzed on the stainless-steel table.

I didn't reach for it immediately.

I just sat there, enjoying the rare luxury of a moment that didn't feel like an eviction notice.

Maya glanced at her own screen, her thumb pausing over a video feed.

She frowned, her expression shifting from relaxed satisfaction to an odd, hesitant confusion.

She turned her phone toward me, sliding it across the metal counter.

"Sienna," Maya said quietly.

"You should probably see this."

"I'm cleaning," I mumbled, not looking up.

"Just look."

I sighed, picked up Maya's phone, and looked at the screen.

It was an Instagram reel from a culinary creator account.

Kara Bell was standing inside the pristine, matte-black interior of the food truck, wearing a clean, embroidered apron that still bore our old logo.

She was smiling brightly at the camera, a copper saucepan steaming behind her.

"Hey guys! Doing a quick late-night prep check on the tour," Kara chirped to her followers, her voice cheerful and polished.

"Everyone's been asking about the secret to our new glazed short ribs. The trick is not making it too sweet. Too much honey kills the smoke."

I stopped breathing.

The screen played on.

Kara reached for a small ceramic bowl and sprinkled a fine, dark powder into the shimmering glaze, stirring it with a practiced, smooth motion.

Less honey next time. Theo said the smoke disappears when it gets too sweet.

The ambient noise of the rooftop night market seemed to recede, leaving only a cold, ringing silence in my ears.

That recipe had never been on the truck.

It had never been in our shared files.

I watched Kara sprinkle the ash into the pan.

Then I thought about the black notebook in my bedroom drawer.

The drawer I always kept closed.

Theo knew where I kept it.