Grayson couldn't be certain, but that scream… it really sounded like her. He refused to let go of even the smallest hope of finding Jasmine.
"Clumsy fool—get lost, you're fired!" the manager roared at the server. But anyone with half a brain could see that the manager was deliberately driving her out. If she stayed, that enraged thug would only become more violent and possibly beat her further.
"I'm so sorry, sir, I truly apologize!" the server stammered, bowing her head.
"Save your apologies!" the thug snarled, then backhanded the manager so hard the manager's head snapped to the side. The entire restaurant froze in stunned silence. Every patron gawked from their tables, a few stepping back uncertainly. The other servers hovered near the walls, afraid to breathe.
But Grayson cared about none of it. The manager and the thug were blocking his view of the server—he could not see her. Panic spiked in his chest. Without hesitation, he darted past the throng and followed the server's path as she was shepherded toward the kitchen.
His heart pounded as he rounded a corner toward the back hallway, and there—just for a fraction of a second—he glimpsed her slender, graceful figure disappear through the swinging kitchen doors. It was her: Jasmine. He felt certain.
He sprinted forward. "Hey! What are you doing? This is the kitchen—staff only!"
A line cook stepped in front of him, brandishing a long chef's knife. "You can't be in here," he growled, gesturing to the sign on the door: "Authorized Personnel Only."
Grayson hauled himself past the cook. "Move aside—I'm looking for someone!" He pushed through the door and into the chaos of the kitchen.
The kitchen was a blur of movement: five or six chefs shouting orders, prep cooks ferrying pans back and forth, servers darting in and out. Steam curled in thick clouds, obscuring the fluorescent lights overhead. Grayson scoured the room. Some twenty people bustled around him, but no sight of Jasmine.
His hope shattered. He sank to the floor, clutching his head with both hands. Had he truly been mistaken? After seven days of thinking only of her, his mind might—no, his heart might—have been playing tricks on him.
Voices drifted from a chopping station nearby:
"Did you hear? A table out front is a bunch of punks making a ruckus—they look like gangsters."
"They made the wrong soup—supposed to be the beef consommé but brought out the Mexican meatball soup by accident. That table went ballistic."
"It wasn't the newbie's fault, though: the chef misheard and cooked the wrong dish. But those louts took it out on the poor kid."
"I heard he hurled an entire pot of scalding soup at her! Can you believe that? Such wickedness."
"Those thugs have no decency. Hardly anyone in the dining room can say a word without them causing chaos. That girl's so refined—last week she helped some foreign tourists order, even though no one spoke their language. She clearly had an education. Yet here she is, running food. What a terrible twist of fate."
"Don't you know? They say her boyfriend… he's in deep trouble. Owes someone a million dollars. And since his family's broke, he can't cover it. So she dropped out of school just to come work and earn money to help him pay back that debt."
"A million dollars? A young girl, sacrificing everything to save her boyfriend? That's… unbelievably noble."
"Ask her about it, though, and she won't say a word. If you press her, she just cries. I think that boyfriend must be a real scoundrel—probably blew through all her money and ended up owing loan sharks. Now she's stuck earning every penny to pay it off."
"With how badly they're treating her, she should have left him a long time ago."
"But it seems she still loves him. This girl—earning a million dollars by herself—takes guts, courage, heart. She must care about him so deeply."
The words struck Grayson like a blow. His heart thundered. Those women were talking about Jasmine—about him. He leapt to his feet and rushed toward the two cooks peeling vegetables at a prep table, their heads bent over onions and peppers.
"Aunties! Excuse me—please, do you know where the young server is?" He was on his knees, desperation flooding every syllable. "I—I'm her boyfriend!"
The two cooks jerked wide-eyed at the sight of him, a wild-eyed stranger in prison-gray clothes. They nearly dropped their knives in shock, backing away.
"Calm down," one finally said, wariness softening in her voice. "Who are you?"
"I—please, I just want to see her. I know she's here somewhere." Grayson's breath came in ragged gasps. "She told me… that she owes someone a million dollars. She—she left school just to work and help me pay it off."
Recognition flickered in the cooks' eyes. "You're that boy—as in, *her* boy? The one with all that debt?" the second cook asked, stepping forward.
Grayson's heart clenched. "Yes. Yes, I am."
The first cook—tall, stern—snapped her fingers. "Follow me." She motioned toward a narrow hallway at the back. "She's here, in that room."
Grayson's pulse raced as he followed them through a tight corridor. He felt lightheaded—would he finally see her?
At the end of the hall, the first cook pushed open a single door.
Inside, he saw her: Jasmine, seated in a small break area. Her back was to him, shoulders hunched. She held an ice pack to her right shoulder, her body trembling. That burn mark—the one from the boiling soup—still glowed red through her blouse.
Jasmine's head was bowed as she spoke, voice muffled by tears. "I'm so sorry, Manager. It was all my fault. Please—please don't fire me. I'll work twice as hard, be twice as careful. I need this money—I need this job. Please…"
Every syllable wrenched at Grayson's heart. He couldn't hold back any longer. "Jasmine…"
Her entire body convulsed. She froze in place, heart pounding at that familiar voice. All through those seven torturous days, she had refused to let herself contact him, even though every waking moment had been filled with longing to hear his voice again. Now that she did… she shook violently, tears squeezing out of her eyes.
She hesitated, then raised her head slowly. "Grayson."
When her eyes landed on him—gaunt, weary, haunted by days without sleep—her heart shattered. Tears slipped freely down her cheeks. All of the injustices she'd endured, all of her aching wounds… they exploded in a single overwhelming sob. She dropped to her knees and flung herself into his arms, her tears soaking through his shirt.
Grayson held her tight, pressing a gentle kiss to her damp hair. His hand smoothed over her once-supple shoulders, now thin and bruised. He felt every tremor of pain and fear she had carried in the past days.
"Jasmine…" he whispered, voice breaking. "I know everything now. Why did you do this? Why would you come work to pay my debt? Why didn't you tell me? Do you know how I spent every day, every night, searching for you and thinking of you?"
She buried her face deeper against his chest, the ice pack still clutched in her hand. "I know," she choked out. "I knew… If I'd told you, you would never have let me do it. So I did it on my own."
"Why, Jasmine? I would have supported you. I would have fought for you." He brushed her hair back to see her face. "But you shouldn't have suffered alone."
She reached into her pocket and drew out five crisp one-hundred–dollar bills, trembling as she handed them to him. "I worked those seven days—I saved every cent. I didn't spend a penny. We'll pay back that million together."
Grayson took the money with shaking fingers, his chest tightening. He pressed a tender kiss on her bruised shoulder, then another on her temple. His voice was thick with remorse and relief: "You—my foolish girl. I love you so much. I promise I will never let you go again." In his heart, only she existed. Every feeling—guilt, devotion, fierce protectiveness—swirled through him.
At that moment, the first cook stepped inside. "Seeing the two of you together—it warms an old woman's heart," she said, smoothing her apron. "Young man, if you ever mistreat this girl, I won't let you off easy."
Jasmine flinched, eyes wide with worry, glancing at the kitchen's entrance.
"And before you linger any longer," the cook added, eyes flicking toward the swinging kitchen doors, "you need to go out the back. I heard the trouble in the dining room is only getting worse. Those gangsters will be looking for her. Go—now, before they come this way."
Grayson's arms tightened around Jasmine as the danger outside sank in. She clung to him, trembling, her gaze flickering to the door—fear in her eyes.
He bent to cradle her face in his hands and spoke with solemn resolve: "Jasmine, promise me you'll never let anyone hurt you again. I made myself that vow the moment you walked away. No one will ever take advantage of you now."
Her tears fell faster. She collapsed against him, overwhelmed.
"Stay here," he whispered. "I'll be right back." He kissed her cheek and slipped away, leaving her waiting in that tiny break room as he moved back toward the kitchen exit—ready to face whatever chaos awaited in the dining room, determined to protect the woman he loved.