Chasing His Kickass Luna Back

Chapter 0242

His gaze finally breaks from mine, looking at anything but my face. “I was just checking something,” he Content © provided by NôvelDrama.Org.

says, his voice so low it’s a whisper.

“Oh, you were ‘checking something?’” I echo, my tone chalk full of disbelief. “By switching labels and

possibly ruining our dish? Hm?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, the perfect picture of guilt.

“I was just…” He stammers, his voice trailing off.

I can’t take it anymore. I’m getting those truffles—the real black truffles, the ones that are balled up in

his filthy little hand, about to be slipped into his pocket—for Abby, one way or another.

Without entirely thinking of a plan, I find myself lurching forward, fueled by anger and the adrenaline of

the competition, and snatch the truffles out of his hand.

“You’re cheating!” I call out, loud enough for the others to hear. “Did Daniel put you up to this?”

But then, as the truffles come into my possession, the sous chef’s face morphs into something

unreadable, and suddenly, he’s cradling his wrist, howling in pain.

“You wrenched my wrist! You hurt me!” he cries out.

I stand there, truffles in hand, shocked. “I did no such thing! I didn’t even touch you!”

His cries echo off the pantry walls, drawing eyes toward us like moths to a flame. The room falls

deathly silent, save for his accusations. The camera swivels in our direction, eager to capture this

drama for live television.

“Look, everyone, I didn’t touch him! He’s lying!” I protest, holding out the truffles as evidence of his

deceit. “He was swapping the ingredients. He took the black truffles and—”

But it’s too late; the narrative has shifted, and I can see it in the way their eyes change, how the

whispers are starting to spread. The sous chef howls even louder, gripping his wrist as his face turns

beet red.

“Ow! Owww!” he wails, pacing back and forth. “God, I think he sprained my wrist! Ow!”

A security guard, a hulking figure of authority, steps forward. “Sir, you need to come with me,” he says,

jerking his head toward me.

Abby’s face, once flushed with the heat of cooking, blanches as she witnesses the scene. “Karl, what’s

going on?” Her voice, filled with disbelief, reaches me even as I’m ushered away from the scene by the

security guard.

“I never touched him, Abby! He’s faking it!” The desperation in my voice does nothing to change the

unfolding events.

The security guard’s grip is firm on my arm, unyielding. “Let’s not make a scene, sir,” he says.

“A scene? He made the scene! Look at the truffles!” I point toward the pantry, but it’s no use. No one is

listening to me. Why would they? They just think I’m an animal, violent, an asshole who attacked an

innocent man over mushrooms.

Abby’s eyes, wide and filled with a cocktail of confusion and fear, stay locked on mine as I’m pulled

away.

Sabotage.