Ivy's POV
I said NO.
The drunk guy's face turned red. Come on, sweetheart. Just one more beer.
We don't serve alcohol. I kept my voice firm, professional. This is a taco truck. And even if we did, you've had enough.
It was 9:47 PM on a Friday night. Late service was usually mellow—a few stragglers, some night shift workers grabbing dinner. But this guy had been getting progressively louder for the past ten minutes, demanding beer, hitting on me, making the other customers uncomfortable.
Most had already left.
You think you're better than me? He leaned against my counter, breath reeking of whiskey. Stuck-up little—
Sir, I need you to leave.
Make me.
Before I could respond, his hand shot out and grabbed my wrist across the counter. Yanked hard.
Pain shot up my arm as I stumbled forward, my hip slamming into the edge of the serving window.
Let GO
You need to learn some manners, he slurred, pulling harder.
Then Cole was there.
I didn't see where he came from. One second the street was empty, the next he was between me and the drunk, his hand wrapped around the guy's arm with crushing force.
Let go. Cole's voice was deadly quiet. Absolutely calm. Now.
The drunk released me, spinning toward Cole. Who the hell are you?
Someone who really doesn't like men who put their hands on women. Cole's stance shifted—balanced, controlled, ready. Not like a chef. Like someone with serious training in hurting people.
You want a piece of me? The drunk swung wildly.
Cole dodged with minimal movement, caught the guy's arm, and had him pinned against my truck in less than two seconds. Face-first. Arm twisted behind his back. Professional. Efficient. Scary.
Stop moving, Cole said calmly. You're drunk, you assaulted someone, and the cops are already on their way. Don't make this worse.
You can't do this! I'll sue! I'll
You'll shut up and wait for the police. Cole applied just enough pressure to make the guy gasp. Or I can add resisting to your charges. Your choice.
The drunk went still.
I stood frozen in my truck, heart hammering, watching Cole control a man six inches taller than him like it was nothing.
That wasn't kitchen training. That was something else entirely.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Jimmy appeared from his truck, phone in hand. Called 911 when I saw him grab you. You okay, Ivy?
I'm... yeah. I think so.
Two patrol cars pulled up, lights flashing. Officers took the drunk guy from Cole, who explained the situation in clear, professional terms, like he'd given police reports before.
We'll need statements from both of you, one officer said.
Of course. Cole glanced back at me. Give us a minute?
The officers nodded, walking the drunk to their car.
Cole crossed to my truck. All the deadly calm had vanished, replaced by something softer. Concerned.
Can I see your wrist?
I held it out wordlessly.
His fingers were gentle as he examined where the drunk had grabbed me. Careful touches, checking for swelling, testing my range of motion. His hands were warm, calloused from kitchen work, impossibly careful.
Bruising, but nothing broken, he murmured. Ice it when you get home. Ibuprofen for the pain.
How do you know—
I've seen a lot of kitchen injuries. His thumb brushed over the red marks already forming on my skin. And other kinds.
Our eyes met. This close, I could see details I'd missed before—a small scar through his left eyebrow, the way his jaw tensed like he was holding back words, the genuine worry in his gray-blue eyes.
You okay? he asked quietly.
The question cracked something in my chest. When was the last time someone asked if I was okay and actually meant it?
I didn't need your help, I said, but my voice shook.
I know. His hand still cradled my wrist, warm and steady. Did it anyway.
Why?
Something flickered in his expression. Because no one should have to handle that alone.
The weight of his words suggested he was talking about more than just tonight.
Cole, I
Statement time, one of the officers called.
Cole released my wrist carefully, stepping back. The loss of his warmth felt sudden and wrong.
Thank you, I managed.
He nodded once, then walked away to talk to the police.
Twenty minutes later, after giving my statement and watching the cops drive away with the drunk guy in custody, I found myself alone on the quiet street.
Cole was packing up his truck across the way. I should go over there. Should ask questions. Should demand to know how a BBQ vendor moved like a trained bodyguard and gave first aid like a medic.
Should ask if he really was Cole Hastings, and why he'd been hiding on this street for three years.
But my wrist throbbed where he'd touched it, and my heart was doing complicated things, and I was terrified of the answers.
So I just watched him work, efficient and solitary, and wondered who the hell Cole Harrison really was.
He finished loading, closed his truck, and paused. Looked directly at me like he'd known I was watching the whole time.
Raised one hand in a small wave.
Then drove away into the Austin night.
I stood there long after his taillights disappeared, touching my wrist where his fingers had been.
I didn't understand this man. Didn't trust him. Didn't know if he was dangerous or damaged or something in between.
But I'd felt safer in those two minutes with his hand on my wrist than I'd felt in months.
And that terrified me more than anything.
My phone buzzed. I'd charged it during the police statements.
Unknown number: He protected you tonight. Just like he protected those women five years ago. The ones who accused his mentor of harassment. The ones Cole Hastings defended—and lost everything for.
My breath caught.
Another message: The official story says Cole harassed them. But what if that's backwards? What if he was the one who tried to STOP the harassment? What if he took the fall to protect them?
Ask yourself: Does the man you saw tonight seem like a predator? Or does he seem like someone who destroys himself to save others?
There's more to the Apex scandal than the news reported. And it connects to Marcus Webb in ways you can't imagine.
Check who mentored Marcus at Meridian. Check who helped him become head chef. Then look at who that same person destroyed in Austin five years earlier.
The truth is closer than you think.
The messages vanished.
I stared at my phone, hands shaking.
The drunk's angry face. Cole's protective stance. His gentle fingers on my wrist. The absolute certainty in his movements—someone who'd fought before, protected before, sacrificed before.
I pulled up my browser with trembling hands and searched: Cole Hastings Apex scandal full story.
Found a detailed article from five years ago. Read it three times, each pass making my stomach sink further.
Then I searched: Marcus Webb career history Meridian restaurant.
And there, buried in his professional bio, was the name that made everything click into place:
Trained under renowned chef Laurent Bisset at Meridian's sister restaurant, eventually promoted to head chef after Bisset's recommendation.
Laurent Bisset. The celebrity chef who'd owned Apex restaurant in Austin. The man Cole Hastings had worked for five years ago.
The man Cole had accused of harassment before his own career was destroyed.
The same man who'd mentored Marcus Webb.
Oh God.
I searched: Laurent Bisset Marcus Webb Meridian.
Found investor documents. Bisset had backed Marcus's promotion. Had recommended him for head chef. Had been involved with Meridian for years.
The man who'd destroyed Cole was connected to the man who'd destroyed me.
My phone buzzed one last time:
Now you're starting to understand. Cole didn't park near you by accident. He knew who you were. Knew what Marcus did to you. Because the same people who destroyed his career helped destroy yours.
Question is: Is Cole trying to protect you? Use you for revenge? Or both?
Trust him or don't. But you're both fighting the same enemy, whether you know it or not.
The message disappeared.
I looked at the empty space where Cole's truck had been, my mind reeling.
Cole Hastings hadn't stumbled onto East 6th Street by chance.
He'd come here deliberately. Changed his name. Built a new life.
And when I showed up—Ivy Chen, the chef destroyed by Marcus Webb, the same Marcus Webb connected to Laurent Bisset—he'd parked right across from me.
Protecting me? Watching me? Using me?
I didn't know.
But tomorrow, I was getting answers.
Even if I had to drag them out of him.