Chloe’s apartment was a gloomy place. Three days had passed since the night Gordon had left, and she hadn’t left her sofa. Her chef whites remained untouched on the floor where she’d dropped them, and the expensive Bordeaux sat like a reproachful monument on the side table.
Her phone began to buzz incessantly. It was Richard. She hesitated, then swiped to answer, dreading having to explain her abrupt disappearance.
“Hello?” her voice was hoarse.
“Chloe! Thank goodness! Where are you? Why haven’t you been answering my texts? Are you sick? You haven’t been to work in three days!” Richard’s voice ached with worry and palpable exasperation.
“I… I can’t come in, Richard. I’m fine, just… not fine.”
“Not fine? What does that even mean? You’re the Pastry Chef! The line is falling apart! Chef
