Chapter 2
Zane stares at the message before typing back: "No. Harper kept family stuff private."
Liar. I told him everything. About Mom working double shifts at the grocery store, about Jake struggling in high school, about how we barely scraped by each month. He knows I don't have much family, which means no one's coming to ask questions.
Another text pops up. Tyler: "Found something in Harper's locker. Want me to bring it by?"
Zane hesitates, then responds: "Tomorrow. After shift."
Something in my locker. My pregnancy test? The tiny server apron I bought as a cute reveal? What does Tyler know?
Brielle returns, lipstick fresh, my cardigan styled perfectly.
"Ready, handsome?"
"Yeah." Zane kills the lights. "Your place or mine?"
"Yours. I left some things there yesterday."
Yesterday. She was already moving into his apartment yesterday. I've been dead three days, and she was making herself at home before my body was even cold.
I follow them outside, watching Zane help her into his car. Same gentlemanly gesture he used to do for me.
As they drive away, Brielle's phone lights up with notifications. Story views, likes, comments flooding in.
Three days ago I died rushing back to tell him about our baby. Tonight he screwed another woman in our restaurant, in my clothes, in the exact spot where we used to plan our future.
I try to leave, but every time I reach the parking lot's edge, pain slams into me like a wall. I'm trapped here, condemned to watch him replace me like I never existed.
But this isn't over. If I'm stuck watching my life get stolen piece by piece, I'm going to learn the truth. All of it.
The restaurant goes dark except for table 18, where the candles still flicker. Our table. Their table now.
Well, Zane. Enjoy your Instagram princess. Because I'm going to find out exactly what you did while I was dying.
And when I do, you're going to wish you'd mourned me a little longer.
Next day I'm floating in the locker room, watching Brielle set up her new workspace. She got locker #23, right next to my old one.
Tyler's in the corner, quietly packing up my stuff. Photos, hair ties, emergency makeup, and that lucky pen I used on my first day.
"You can throw most of this away," Brielle tells Tyler, examining my things. "But this is cute." She picks up my personalized apron, the one with tiny hearts embroidered along the edge.
That apron took me weeks to save up for. I found it on Etsy, custom embroidered, wanting to look more professional. Now she's going to wear it like it was always hers.
"I don't think—" Tyler starts.
"It's just sitting here," Brielle cuts him off. "Harper doesn't need it anymore, right?"
Tyler's face hardens, but he doesn't argue. He keeps packing, but I can see anger building behind his eyes.
Carmen walks in, sees Brielle holding my apron.
"That was Harper's," Carmen says, voice cold as ice.
"I know. Zane said I could use whatever I need to get started." Brielle smiles, sweet and innocent. "I hope that's okay?"
Zane said. He gave her permission to take my things, like he owned them. Like he owned me.
Carmen can't find words, but her expression says everything.
Manager Kevin's giving Brielle her official team introduction at the front counter. She's wearing my apron, holding a brand new name tag.
"Everyone, this is Brielle Kim, our new hostess," Kevin announces. "She'll be taking over front-of-house coordination."
Taking over. Not filling a position—taking over.
"Where's she stationed?" Sarah asks, wiping glasses behind the bar.
"Section 15-22," Kevin says. My section. I spent months earning those premium tables, building relationships with regulars. "It's our best area, and Brielle has experience with high-end customer service."
High-end customer service. What does that even mean? Posing for Instagram photos? She's worked here exactly one day.
Carmen's jaw tightens. "Those were Harper's tables."
"Harper isn't coming back, Carmen," Kevin says firmly. "We need to move forward. Business as usual."
Brielle pins on her name tag: "BRIELLE - NEW TEAM MEMBER."
But she's using my pin. The tiny silver one shaped like a server's tray that I ordered online as a personal touch.
"Cute pin," Tyler mutters, but only I can hear the sarcasm.
Sunday afternoon shift starts, and Brielle's already making changes. She connects her phone to the restaurant's Bluetooth speaker.
"What happened to our usual music?" Sarah asks.
"Oh, I thought we could try something more current," Brielle says, scrolling through her phone. "The old playlist was kinda... outdated."
The old playlist. My playlist. I spent hours curating it, mixing current hits with classic feel-good songs, creating perfect background ambiance for family dining.
Her music starts playing. Some trendy pop song I don't recognize, too loud, too energetic for Sunday brunch crowd.
Outdated. I updated that playlist last week, added songs customers requested. But now it's apparently outdated, like everything else about me.
Mrs. Patterson, one of our regulars, looks confused. "What happened to that lovely music you usually play? The Frank Sinatra song my husband liked?"
"This is more modern," Brielle explains. "More engaging for younger customers."
Mrs. Patterson is seventy-eight. She and her late husband came here every Sunday for three years. She doesn't want engaging—she wants familiar.
But Brielle doesn't know that, because she doesn't know our customers. She doesn't know that Mr. Kim always requests table 16 so he can watch the parking lot for his daughter's car. She doesn't know the Johnson family needs extra time to order because their youngest son has autism.
I spent two years learning these people's stories. Building relationships. Making them feel at home. One day here, and she decides to change everything.
Brielle sets up a photo shoot at table 18. My table. Mine and Zane's special place.
"Tyler, can you take some photos for my Instagram?" She poses with the menu, bright smile, my apron perfectly positioned.
"I'm working," Tyler says.
"Just a few quick shots? For the restaurant's social media presence?"
Restaurant's social media presence? We don't have official social media. Kevin always said it was too much hassle. But suddenly Brielle's here one day and we need Instagram presence?
Tyler reluctantly takes the photos. Brielle reviews them, selecting the best ones.
"Perfect. 'New beginnings at my favorite spot 💕'" she types. "This lighting is amazing here. No wonder it's the most popular table."
Most popular table. She thinks it's popular because of lighting.
Actually, it's popular because I always requested it for special customers. Because I made sure the flowers were fresh, the view was clear, the service was perfect. Because I turned it into the best table through my own effort.
But in her story, it just naturally has good lighting.