Suivante was my home, the restaurant that had lifted me from sous chef to assistant head chef.
The clatter of the restaurant kitchen was the soundtrack of my life, and it energized me from the time I walked into the restaurant until I walked out. Until now.
This morning, everything felt off. I couldn’t explain it.
The lunch team was on fire, rushing orders, running plates, getting the job done better than any kitchen I’d ever worked before. Me, Miguel, Sam, Ricardo, Yvette, and Lisa had the place hopping. But every few minutes, I fell behind. It wasn’t like me.
As assistant head chef at one of New York City’s most esteemed eateries, my days were a whirlwind of activity, each service a dance of precision and creativity. I loved every moment—the heat, the pressure, the satisfaction of a perfectly executed dish. A slash of herbed reduction here, a sliver of almond brûlée there. Ice-white dishes painted with every color in the rainbow.
It was a world I controlled with ease, a world far removed from the complications of so-called real life.
What good had real life ever done for me anyway? Not much, that was for sure. It had been almost two months since I ran away from home for a break and three months since my breakup, and I had been doing well enough that Carrie had stopped giving me shit about moping around.
But the vacation had been an escape from real life, not an embrace of it.
I’d found an old bottle of Leo’s cologne in the back of my medicine cabinet the other day, and it didn’t even faze me. I just tossed it out and kept trucking. It shouldn’t have been so easy to let him go after two years. We should have been more attached to each other than that, shouldn’t we?
But Carrie always warned me about “should.” “Should is someone else’s expectation,” she’d say. And damn it, she was always right.
At least I had her in my corner.
Still, Leo had been my longest relationship, so I’d expected something more than… nothing. But apparently, I had a quick turnaround time even for heartbreak.
So why was I still so distracted?
In the middle of the lunch rush, I bent over a meticulous plating of our smoked sausage and white balsamic glaze special, a wave of nausea hit me so suddenly that I had to pause and steady myself against the stainless steel counter.
The scent of garlic and seared meat hit like a punch to the gut, turning my stomach inside out. Even the sweet tang of balsamic glaze felt like it clawed at my throat.
The smells of the kitchen, usually so appetizing, were suddenly overpowering.
‘Everything okay, Ella?’ Carrie’s voice cut through the noise, tinged with concern. She had an uncanny ability to notice whenever something was amiss, even from the front of the house. Her red pixie cut made her easy to spot in the busy kitchen. She wore all black—everyone at Suivante did—and a worried expression.
‘Just a bit off, I think,’ I managed to say, forcing a smile as I straightened up and resumed my task.
Carrie watched me for a moment longer, and her brows knit together in concern. Professional or personal, I never knew with her. The two overlapped in every kitchen I had worked before, and here, the lines were blurred further by our friendship. ‘You know, you’ve been ‘off’ quite a bit lately,’ she said, her tone light but probing. ‘Are you sure there isn’t a mini-Ella floating around in there?”
“A what?”
“Are you pregnant? You’d tell me, right?”
I laughed once hard and rolled my eyes. ‘Oh, sure, that’s exactly it.’
“Hey, you’re the one who said she hooked up on vacation. I’m just checking in.”
I shook my head. “There’s no chance. I’m on the shot, remember?”
“Right, right. I forgot. Maybe it’s that bug that’s going around.”
“I’ll be fine. Probably just turned around too fast.”
“Carrie,” Emily called out from the door. “Someone wants to speak to the owner.” The hostess was too new to know how to handle customer requests.
“Be right there.” She turned to me. “You’re sure you’re good?”
“We have crackers and ginger ale. I’ll be fine. Go on.”
She bobbed her head and left me in the sweltering kitchen. Why was it so hot back here?
“Miguel, hit the A/C again—”
“Already got it as low as possible, chef.”
“All right, I’m taking two in the walk-in.” My voice came out thin. Weak. Not me. Two minutes down during lunch rush was dangerous—but right now, so was staying out here.
The second the cooler door sealed behind me, the cold air hit, but instead of relief, it only sharpened the nausea twisting my gut. The usual crisp scent of greens, citrus, and herbs turned sickening.
The kale smelled like compost. The tomatoes like rot. I blinked, expecting to find mold or wilt—but the bins were pristine. Emerald leaves. Crimson skins. Everything looked perfect. So why did my stomach lurch like I’d inhaled something foul?
Carrie’s voice came back to me, slithering between the thrum of my heartbeat. “You’ve been off quite a bit lately… Are you sure there isn’t a mini-Ella floating around in there?”
I pressed a hand to my abdomen as dread coiled inside me.
No.
It couldn’t be.
It’s a bug. A flu. Anything but that.
I forced out a breath, but it came shaky and shallow. The vegetables blurred, a cold sweat trickling down my spine.
And yet, somewhere deep down, a quiet voice whispered the truth I wasn’t ready to hear.
I cannot be pregnant. It’s not possible. I’m on the shot. It’s just a flu or something. It has to be.
I tried to comfort myself with thoughts of the shot. My every three-month appointment system had never failed me. I was religious about it. I checked my phone to check when my last crossed out appointment was six months ago.
I had missed the next appointment because it was scheduled the day after I’d been dumped. But I had been on the shot for years. There was no way that one missed shot set me up for a mistake, right?
The rest of the day passed in a blur of forced normalcy. I focused on my work, on the familiar tasks of chopping, sautéing, and seasoning, letting the routine numb my spiraling thoughts. I did everything I could to avoid thinking about the smells and sights and heat, sometimes swiping the fresh mint from the bar to gnaw on. It helped my stomach more than the crackers and ginger ale. But nothing soothed my nerves.
The seed Carrie had planted grew, watered by my rising suspicions and the undeniable symptoms I could no longer ignore.
After my shift, I nearly ran to the nearest pharmacy. I thought about hitting the corner store by my apartment, but Mrs. Bing would have asked too many questions I wasn’t ready to answer. She had run that shop for over thirty years and knew everyone and all the gossip in the neighborhood. If I had bought a pregnancy test there, I would have had a congratulations basket on my doorstep by tomorrow. As much as I loved my neighborhood, I also loved my privacy.
Back in the solitude of my apartment, I locked the bathroom door behind me like it might somehow shield me from the answer I already suspected. The apartment felt too quiet. Too small. The only sound was the crinkle of the test wrapper as my shaky hands ripped it open.
I followed the instructions with clinical precision, heart hammering as if I were about to plate a dish for Michelin inspectors.
Minutes stretched like hours.
When the result appeared, it felt like the air thickened around me.
Positive.
The results stared up at me from that tiny plastic window—merciless, undeniable.
“No, no, no,” I whispered, the words tasting bitter as they left my lips.
For a second, I felt weightless—like the floor had dropped out from under me. The room tilted, but I caught the edge of the sink, nails biting into porcelain as I clung to the only steady thing in sight.
But panic was a luxury I didn’t allow myself. Logistics—that was where I lived.
Where I survived.
Outside of creativity, every chef must handle logistics like a pro. Those were the main elements of the job.
So, I considered schedules, finances, maternity leave—all the practicalities of managing an unexpected pregnancy while running a kitchen. Not the implications. Not the reality of what I was contemplating. Only the logistics were allowed to sink in.
But as the evening wore on and the apartment grew quiet, the ugly reality of my situation began to sink in. This wasn’t just a logistical challenge.
It was a life-changing event.
The father was Dominic, a man whose brief but profound impact on my life had left me reeling. I thought about reaching out to him somehow, but the complications were too great.
I paced my apartment as the city lights flickered outside my window. Before I could stop myself, I pulled out my phone. Opened the search bar.
Dominic Mortoli.
The name alone made my pulse race. I stared at it for a long beat, thumb hovering.
What was I even doing? Googling him? Looking for… what? His phone number? A way to break this news that neither of us were ready for?
My thumb hovered over the search button, but my heart was already slamming against my ribs. He deserves to know, a small voice whispered. But louder still was the echo of This will ruin everything.
I locked my phone and shoved it under a pillow before I could act on impulse. Later. Maybe. But not now.
Carrie’s husband worked at the same hospital as Dom, and my connection to him was a delicate thread woven with potential repercussions I couldn’t risk.
I hadn’t told her that it was Dom who I had hooked up with.
And I definitely was not going to tell her Dom was the father.
Moreover, Leo had told me about his father—a man more devoted to his career than his family. Whether those stories were colored by bitterness or not, the risk of entangling Dom in this, of potentially disrupting his life, was too great. This could push Leo over the edge, too. I couldn’t ruin his family by telling him he had more family.
So, telling Dom was out of the question.
I had my own reasons for keeping this from him, too. I prided myself on my independence, on my ability to manage my own affairs. I wasn’t about to give up that control, not even to the father of my child.
I rubbed my stomach, hating how part of me clung to the memory of Dom’s hands on my body, how steady he had felt in the middle of my chaos.
I told myself I was doing this to protect everyone—including myself.
Because if I told him, I’d have to face him. Look him in the eye. Admit that one night in paradise left me carrying something far bigger than either of us could’ve bargained for.
So, no. Telling Dom wasn’t an option.
As I lay in bed that night, the decision formed fully in my mind. I would keep the pregnancy. It was a daunting prospect, but at thirty, it could have been my only chance to have a child. I knew I could do it on my own. Handling pressure was what I did best.
Plus, this kid had fought through ten years of birth control shots in my system to be here. I wanted to give them a chance.
I glanced out of the window, staring at the skyline outside my window. Neon lights blinked like they always had, but tonight, they felt colder. Harder. Harsher.
This city made me who I was. Gritty. Relentless. A chef who’d climbed from peeling potatoes to running services at one of the best restaurants in Manhattan. Could I really walk away from all that? From everything I’d built with my own two hands?
But then I thought of rushing a newborn through subway crowds. Of split shifts and twelve-hour days. Of trying to raise a child in a city that hadn’t exactly been kind to me.
I rubbed my stomach, letting the weight of it all sink in.
The truth was, I couldn’t protect a baby here—not the way I wanted to.
Maybe Carrie was right. Maybe should wasn’t a real plan.
Chicago.
Dom had mentioned it once, offhandedly. Slower pace. More space. A shot at starting over somewhere that didn’t chew people up and spit them out for walking too slow.
I had a sister there, too, though we hadn’t spoken in years. Perhaps it was time to fix that.
It wasn’t just about logistics anymore. It was about breathing room—for me and this baby.
In the middle of the night, I started exploring Chicago online. The food scene, the apartments, the parks. The school system was top-notch, as was the public transit, for the most part.
I posted on some Chicago message boards, hoping to find out more. Thankfully, people were quick to answer, and I stayed up all night learning what I could. My mere questions became the groundwork for relocation.
For a few days, I reached out discreetly to connections and explored job openings for a chef in the city. It would be a fresh start, a simpler life for my child, away from the shadows of the Mortoli men and the complexities of New York’s culinary scene.
I would do right by them, and I’d do it on my own.
Even if it meant never telling him.
Even if it meant breaking my own heart to protect theirs.
