Page 24 of Obsessed Bratva King

I turn on the shower and step in, letting the scalding water burn the last remnants of my dream from my skin. It shouldn’t take this long to forget one man. It shouldn’thurtthis much to force him out of my thoughts.

I scrub harder.

By the time I step out, my skin is flushed red but I’m not thinking about Ivan. Hardly at all. I dry off quickly, pulling on my waitress uniform—black slacks, white button-up, plain and simple.

I move around the apartment in a well practiced rhythm, grabbing my shoes, tying my hair back into a neat ponytail.

I glance at the books stacked on my nightstand—guides on restaurant management, business finance. My way out. My proof that I don’t need anyone but myself.

Then I run back into the bathroom, nausea gripping me like I’m sea sick and there’s a storm rolling my ship.

A sharp, rolling wave of dizziness hits me so fast I have to brace my hands against the sink. My stomach clenches, tight and uncomfortable, bile rising to the back of my throat.

What the hell?

I inhale slowly through my nose. It passes, but not quickly enough. My fingers dig into the porcelain of the sink as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My skin looks paler than it did ten minutes ago, my lips pressed into a thin line.

I shake my head.It’s stress.That’s all. The last six weeks have been a whirlwind of building a new life. It makes sense that my body is protesting. I’m working long hours. I’m adjusting to a new city, a new routine. That’s all.

I splash cold water on my face before I grab a towel and pat it dry. My stomach still feels off, a faint queasiness lingering, but I push it away. It doesn’t matter.I have to get to work.

I brush my teeth, spit, rinse. The thought of breakfast makes my stomach twist, so I don’t bother.

I grab my bag and head for the door.

The hum of the restaurant settles around me, the soft clink of forks against porcelain, the quiet murmur of conversation, theoccasional scrape of chairs against the polished wooden floors. It’s steady, predictable.

I like predictable.

I weave through the tables, balancing a tray in one hand, the other tucking a notepad into my apron pocket.

The lunch rush is thinning out, and the air smells of basil and oregano, the remnants of the special. I set down a plate in front of an older man at table six, offering him a small, professional smile.

He doesn’t look up from his book, just gives a distracted nod before reaching for his fork.

That suits me just fine.

I like the work. It keeps my hands busy, my mind occupied. And I’m good at it.

But today, there’s a gnawing unease.

It’s not the faint queasiness still lingering in my stomach from this morning. No, this is different. A slow, creeping sensation like the weight of unseen eyes.

I glance over my shoulder, scanning the restaurant, but no one is watching me. Just the same handful of regulars, the same tired businessmen, the same bored couples picking at their meals.

Still, I can’t shake the feeling.

I push it aside and focus. I’m here to work, not unravel.

I pass the register where Emilio, the owner, is wiping his hands on a dish towel, frowning down at something. I catch the sharpflick of his gaze when I approach. He always watches me like that—like he’s a little afraid of me.

I glance at the counter and immediately see the problem he’s wrestling with. There’s a receipt book open next to the register, a list of expenses scrawled in Emilio’s messy handwriting.

My eyes flick over the numbers, and I frown. The cost of produce has been creeping up for weeks, but he’s still ordering the same amounts, even though certain ingredients are getting wasted.

“You’re over-ordering tomatoes,” I say, my voice low so the customers don’t hear. “We had to throw out half a crate last week.”

Emilio blinks, his thick brows drawing together. “What?”

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