Chasing His Kickass Luna Back
Chapter 0339

Abby

Once the health inspector has his samples, I see him and Mr. Thompson off at the door. Mr. Thompson gives me that disappointed look of his again, and it makes my heart sink even further than it already has.

“The tests should come back from the lab within a week,” the health inspector, Mr. Harrison, says in that matter-of-fact tone. “For now, you are formally requested to close your restaurant.”

Without another word, he hands me an official health department notice that I'm to put up in the restaurant window. My hands shake as I take it, and my eyes fill with tears. The health inspector walks away, leaving just me and Mr. Thompson in his wake, standing in the doorway of my restaurant.

“Mr. Thompson, I—"

"Abby," he interrupts coldly, “if you receive any requests for interviews, please decline. There's enough bad press as it is. Understood?”

I nod stiffly, feeling oddly numb after all of this. Mr. Thompson turns on his heel to leave, but before he's a few steps away, I clear my throat and call after him.

“Mr. Thompson?”

He pauses, stiffening, before slowly turning to look at me. “Yes?”

“You know it's not my fault, right? You know this has to be sabotage?”

Mr. Thompson stares at me for a long time. His expression is unreadable, and that's more terrifying than anything else. Finally, averting his gaze to the floor, he speaks in a hushed tone.

"Abby, you can't just assume that everything is sabotage,” he says quietly and with a mixture of sadness and disappointment in his voice. “I've advocated for you enough already. I think it's about time you start taking accountability.”

Without another word, Mr. Thompson turns on his heel again and strides away, his tall form disappearing down the street. I watch him go with tears in my eyes, my body trembling in an attempt to hold back a sob. Once he’s out of sight, I avert my gaze to the notice in my hand once more.

"OFFICIAL NOTICE: Health Code Investigation Underway, "the notice reads.

I want to crumple it up and throw it on the ground, but I know I can't. Instead, with shaking hands, I do what I've been told to do: I tape it up in the window of the front door, turn off the lights, and grab my keys.

I turn the key in the lock with a heavy heart, but there's a hint of hope there, too. All I can do for now is hope that those samples will come back negative, exonerating me from my supposed mistakes.

Because I know that that food poisoning couldn't have come from my kitchen, even if I'm the only one who believes it.

As I make my way back toward the subway station, I hear my name being called from behind. “Hey! Abby!"

I turn around to see a small group of people standing on the sidewalk, their faces contorted with anger and disdain. They start hurling insults at me, each word more venomous than the last. "Abby, you're a fraud!"one of them shouts. “You never deserved that second chance after your disaster of a performance at the cook-off.”

My chest tightens, and I try to hold back tears as I respond, “You all know I was sabotaged during the cook-off. It's widely known.”

But they just scoff and roll their eyes, dismissing my words as if they're nothing more than lame excuses. “Yeah, right,” another person sneers. “You probably set that up yourself to get sympathy.” Their hurtful words cut deep, and I feel like I'm being torn apart by their judgment. With tears in my eyes, I turn away and continue on my way home, doing my best to ignore their hateful voices as they fade into the background.

However, as I walk through the city streets, I can't escape the feeling of being watched. I glance around nervously, my heart pounding in my chest. The weight of the accusations and the public's condemnation is suffocating, and I need a moment to collect myself.

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