After that day, I made sure to never be alone with Silas. I became an expert in public spaces, lingering near the host stand when he called my name, ensuring the office door stayed open if I absolutely had to enter, keeping a server or a cook within sight at all times.
He could scream and shout at me in the kitchen, his face purpling with rage over a misplaced fork or a delayed order. But he never touched me in public. That, I noticed, was his line. The private violation was his, but the public image of the respectable alpha manager was sacrosanct. The screaming I could endure. It was just noise. It was bearable.
"Goodbye," I waved at the other servers as I clocked out.
"Bye, Holland," they murmured back.
I was starving.
