Chasing His Kickass Luna Back
Chapter 0338

Abby

As I approach Mr. Thompson and the health inspector, I slip off my hood and my blue surgical mask, sticking the mask in my pocket. I'm sure I look like a wreck at the moment, but that's not at the forefront of my mind right now.

“Morning, Abby,” Mr. Thompson says, his eyes filled with a confusing mixture of sympathy and disappointment. He nods toward my pocket where I've just stored the mask. “Hiding, are we?”

I swallow, feeling small under their gazes. “I usually wear a mask on the subway,” I lie, not wanting to admit that I'm already terrified of the backlash that this entire debacle will create.

Mr. Thompson nods slowly, then turns to the health inspector. “Abby, this is Mr. Harrison,” he says, gesturing to the portly older man wearing a tan jacket with a health department emblem on it. “Mr. Harrison, this is Abby, the owner of this restaurant.”

Mr. Harrison shoots me an indifferent look and doesn’t so much as shake my hand. He simply nods, pulling the clipboard out from under his arm. “Well, Abby,” he says in a voice that screams cold professionalism, “shall we get started?”

I nod nervously, hoping beyond hope that I don't look too disheveled and terrified. I fish my keys out of my pocket and brush past the two men. My hands shake as I unlock the door, and I accidentally drop my keys.

“Sorry,” I murmur as I stoop to pick up the keys. “Butter fingers this morning.”

“Nervous, Abby?” the health inspector says as I struggle to open the door.

"Er, a little,” I manage with a wry chuckle. I finally am able to unlock the door and push it open, revealing my dark restaurant. The tables are still in a state of disarray from last night, but other than that, it's as spotless as ever.

“Well,” Mr. Harrison says as he brushes past me, already jotting down notes on his clipboard as he looks around, “if your restaurant is as clean as you say, then you shouldn’t be worried, correct?”

I swallow. While the health inspector's back is turned, I glance at Mr. Thompson; but his expression is inscrutable, and I quickly look away. I hate to say it, but it hurts, and it makes hot tears prick at the backs of my eyes,

After all we've been through together, I'd like to think that Mr. Thompson is just acting this way because the spirit of professionalism demands it, but I can tell that he’s disappointed in me—and maybe in himself, to a certain extent.

For the next half hour, the health inspector walks painstakingly around the dining area. He checks every table, inspects every corner, swabs every door knob with a Q-tip.

He spends even more time at the bar, taking more samples to add to his growing vial collection and taking photographs. The whole time, I feel as if my heart is in my throat.

Finally, he turns to me with a nod.

"Kitchen?" he asks, his gaze cold and calculating.

"Yes," I say, gesturing toward the hallway that leads to the kitchen. “Right this way.”

I lead the two men down the hallway, pausing for a split second as I reach the door to take a deep breath. My team and I painstakingly cleaned the kitchen last night before we left, but in my mind, all I can picture is a disaster. It's as if I expect the kitchen to be filled with rats and garbage.

But, when I open the door, it's as clean as ever.

“Looks clean enough on the surface,” the health inspector says.

I manage a chuckle, although it sounds like nails on chalkboard to my ears right now. “My team and I are very thorough—" 1 begin, but he cuts me off with a raise of his hand.

"We'll see about that,” he mutters under his breath, his tone far from reassuring.

For what feels like an eternity, he inspects every nook and cranny, checking storage areas, refrigerators, and even the ventilation system. His scrutiny is relentless, and I can feel the minutes ticking away, each one dragging me closer toward what feels like impending doom.

Finally, he straightens up, his expression inscrutable. “Your kitchen appears to be clean,” he concedes, though his tone lacks any hint of satisfaction.

Relief surges through me, but it's short-lived.

"However," he continues, “I'll be sending samples of your food and all of the swabs I've taken to the lab for testing. Until we receive the results and ensure your food is safe, I'm afraid I have no choice but to close down your restaurant.”

My heart sinks, and I can't help but protest. “But closing the restaurant will be devastating for business! We've worked so hard to build a reputation, and now—"

The health inspector raises a hand to cut me off once again. “I understand your concerns, but I have a responsibility to the safety of the public. If there's any chance that your food was what caused the recent outbreak, we must take the proper precautions. It's simply protocol.”

As he leaves to gather the samples, I sink into a chair, burying my face in my hands. This nightmare is becoming a reality I can’t escape. I don't know how this happened. My kitchen was impeccable, my staff well-trained. I've been meticulous in following every food safety guideline.

Mr. Thompson, who has been watching the proceedings in silence all morning, approaches me with a disappointed look in his eyes.

"Abby," he begins, his voice heavy with regret, “I've been a staunch advocate for you, vouching for your abilities, and now it seems I've made a grave error in judgment.”

I raise my head to meet his gaze, shame and despair weighing me down. “Mr. Thompson, you have to understand that this wasn't my fault,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. “I've given my all to make this Alpha party a success. Don't abandon me now.”

Mr. Thompson sighs, his disappointment palpable. “I'm sorry, Abby. But this will go down in history as one of the biggest Alpha party disasters,” he says solemnly, “and your restaurant's reputation will be tarnished either way. You can't sit there and avoid all blame, you know.”

He turns away before I can answer, leaving me alone with my thoughts and a profound sense of guilt.

I can't help it; the tears finally slip out, rolling down my cheeks in two tiny rivers. A silent sob shakes my body, and I have to grip the edge of the chair until my knuckles turn white in order to keep myself grounded.

This isn't fair.

The Alpha party was supposed to be a triumph, a chance for me to showcase my skills and make a name for myself in the culinary world. But now, as I sit in my empty kitchen, it feels like it was a death trap. My restaurant, my pride and joy, is being shut down—possibly forever, if those tests come back positive.

Still, I can't help but wonder if this is yet another act of sabotage. It's a thought that constantly nags at the back of my mind, an unsettling notion that someone might want to see me fail.

But who could do something so awful, so evil? And why did it need to happen to me?

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