Chapter 3
Through the office window, I watch Zane showing Kevin something on his phone. Kevin's nodding, looking pleased.
"Brielle's post already has 200 likes," Zane says. "Great publicity for the restaurant."
"Two hundred likes?" Kevin sounds impressed. "Maybe we should make social media part of her regular duties."
"She's a natural. Really knows how to present the brand."
Present the brand? This isn't some trendy downtown restaurant. This is Olive Garden in a strip mall. Our brand is consistent comfort food and good service, not Instagram aesthetics.
"And Harper never did anything like this?" Kevin asks.
"Harper was more... focused on traditional service," Zane says diplomatically.
Traditional service. He makes it sound boring, outdated. Like caring about customers and building relationships is old-fashioned.
"Well, change can be good," Kevin says. "Especially if it brings in younger customers."
They keep talking, planning how to integrate Brielle's "social media skills" into restaurant operations.
Traditional service kept this place running. My repeat customers, my word-of-mouth recommendations, my personal touch with every table. But none of that matters now, because it's not photogenic.
Dinner rush begins, orders coming fast. Brielle's learning the computer system, fumbling with order input.
"Brielle, table 19's asking about wine pairings," Carmen calls out.
"Z, can you help me with this?" Brielle calls to Zane.
Z. My nickname for him. My private, personal nickname that took months for me to feel comfortable using.
Zane pauses, just for a second. He glances toward my old locker, like he's remembering something. Then he walks over to help her.
"What do you need?" he asks. No correction about the nickname.
Z was mine. I gave it to him because he always signed schedules with just "Z." It was our thing, private, intimate. Now she's using it in front of everyone, claiming it like it was always hers.
Carmen notices too. She gives Zane a look that could melt steel, but he avoids eye contact.
"Thanks, Z," Brielle says when he fixes her order. Loud enough for everyone to hear. Marking her territory.
Tyler slams a bus tub down harder than necessary.
During dinner break, several servers gather in the break room eating. Brielle joins them, naturally inserting herself into conversations.
"So how long have you and Zane been together?" asks Jessica, one of the part-time servers.
"It's still pretty new," Brielle says with a modest smile. "But we just clicked, you know? He taught me how to make the restaurant's signature sangria on my first day."
He taught her? I created that recipe. I spent weeks perfecting the mint and lemon balance. I taught him how to make it during one of our late-night dates in the empty restaurant.
"That's so sweet," Jessica says. "Was that the berry sangria? It's really popular."
"Yeah, Z said it was his idea to add fresh berries. Gives it a unique twist."
His idea. My recipe, my creativity, my late nights experimenting with flavors—now it's his idea.
Carmen stands up abruptly, dumps her barely-touched salad in the trash.
"Carmen?" Sarah calls.
"Lost my appetite," Carmen says, walking out.
At least someone remembers. Carmen knows that sangria was mine. She taught me how to muddle the berries properly, how to balance the sweetness. But now she has to sit here listening to my work get credited to someone else.
Tyler looks sick too. He's been quiet all day, watching everything, saying nothing. But I can see the anger building in his eyes.
Mrs. Patterson returns with her daughter for dinner. She's seated in section 20, previously my territory.
"Where's the sweet girl?" Mrs. Patterson asks Brielle. "The one with the blonde hair? She always remembers I need extra lemon for my water."
"Oh, you must mean Harper," Brielle says. "She doesn't work here anymore. But I'll take great care of you!"
"Doesn't work here? Where did she go?"
Brielle hesitates. "I think she... moved away."
Moved away. Not died. Not tragically killed. Moved away, like I chose to leave, like I abandoned my customers and coworkers.
"That's too bad," Mrs. Patterson says. "She was such a lovely girl. Always asked about my grandson."
"I'm sure she was," Brielle says, already walking away. She doesn't ask about the grandson. Doesn't bring extra lemon. Doesn't even remember to refill the water.
Tyler steps outside for his break, pulling out his phone. I follow him, watching as he scrolls through Brielle's Instagram.
Her latest post: "Learning so much at my new job! My manager taught me this amazing sangria recipe - can't wait to perfect it đź’• #newbeginnings #worklove"
Twenty-three comments. All praising her, asking for the recipe, calling her lucky.
Tyler's hands shake as he screenshots the post.
He's documenting. Building evidence. Tyler sees what everyone else is pretending not to notice.
His phone buzzes. Text from someone named "Mom": "How's work, honey? Still thinking about that girl you liked?"
Tyler stares at the message for a long time. Then he types back: "She's gone, Mom. But I'm going to make sure she's remembered."
As the restaurant winds down, Brielle and Zane clean up together. She's still wearing my apron, using my old section, playing her music.
"Good first weekend," Zane tells her.
"Thanks to you showing me everything," she says, standing close. "I hope Harper trained you well."
Trained. Like I was his predecessor, not his girlfriend. Like our relationship was professional development.
They kiss right there in the dining room, where customers can see through windows. Public display, claiming territory.
I spent months being careful about workplace relationships. Never kissed him in front of customers, never let personal life interfere with professional image. But she's been here two days, already making out in the dining room.
Sarah finishes cleaning the bar, purposely loud with glassware. Carmen organizes menus with aggressive precision. Tyler buses tables like he's in a race.
Everyone's angry, but nobody's saying anything. Because Zane is the manager, Brielle is the new girl, and I'm just the ghost of an employee who "moved away."
"See you tomorrow, Z," Brielle says, loud enough for everyone to hear.
"See you tomorrow."
She leaves, but not before posting another Instagram story: "Best job ever đź’• Can't wait for tomorrow!"
Tomorrow she'll take more of my things. Tomorrow she'll rewrite more of our history. Tomorrow she'll continue becoming me, just a better version.
Younger, prettier, more photogenic. With no messy family history, no financial struggles, no pregnancy scares.
Perfect replacement Harper, now with social media skills.
As I watch Zane lock up, I realize something. This isn't just about losing my job or my boyfriend. This is about losing my entire identity, watching someone else live a better version of my life.
Tomorrow I need to remember more. About that night, about why I was rushing back, about what Tyler found in my locker.
Because if I'm going to be trapped here watching my life get stolen, I'm going to make sure the truth comes out.
All of it.