When we were strangers

JANELLE CROSS

I didn't do it, but…

I didn’t poison that man.

I didn’t even serve him.

But none of that mattered when TMZ ran with the headline:

"Celebrity Yacht Chef Sends Music Mogul, Smith Robbins, to ER. Food Poisoning or Foul Play?"

“Tell me you didn't do this, Janelle,” Evans said to me.

“I'm shocked you're asking me,” I said, gutted.

“I don't fucking know what to think!,” he let out. “Soon, the news is going to be everywhere, Janelle. You have no fucking idea who you're up against!” he said and stormed out.

By the time I even had a chance to blink, it was everywhere… Instagram reels, Twitter threads, Reddit conspiracy boards. Some influencer with too much time had even made a 3-minute TikTok “investigative” video with background music and dramatic transitions. I had people I went to culinary school with messaging me like, “Omg, girl are you okay? Saw your name trending for the wrong reason.”

Not “I know you didn’t do it.”

Just “Are you okay?”

I wasn’t.

They said his oysters were spoiled. He claimed he only ate what my team served. But the truth? I saw the man sneak bites of a shrimp cocktail that was meant for another guest. The shrimp had been sitting under stage lights for four hours before he pounced on it like a drunk raccoon. But no, apparently, I was the villain with the poisoned platter.

Just as everyone predicted, he sued me.

A $3 million defamation suit.

Me, a private chef in a one-bedroom Koreatown apartment with a busted fridge and a catering van that needed a new transmission.

“My brand has been irreparably damaged,” his lawyer said in the suit.

Sir, your brand was cocaine and three divorces ago.

Anyway, the fallout was quick and loud.

Every client I had lined up for the next three months canceled. Some did it politely, others just ghosted me like I was their clingy ex. Deposits were refunded. I had to let go of three staff members… Maria, Devon, and Luca. All of them had bills to pay. I understood. They didn't even argue when I broke the news. Just nodded, eyes down, like I had confirmed what they already knew.

Only Lisa stayed.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said, arms crossed, curls bouncing with defiance as she planted herself on the prep table like a stubborn cat.

I stared at her. “Lisa, I can’t pay you. I literally cannot even pay myself right now. You're better off leaving, just like the rest”

She shrugged. “Bullshit! They chose to leave, but I'm sticking my ass here.”

“Even without pay?,” I reminded her.

“I'm not dying anytime soon. You’ll owe me. Put it in writing if you want. I believe in karmic return.”

I laughed bitterly. “I can’t even afford karma right now.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, tough. I’m not leaving you in this hellhole alone. Besides, I’ve been through worse. Remember my ex who pawned my blender? This is nothing.”

God, I loved her.

But even with Lisa by my side, everything felt like it was unraveling… and fast.

The few ingredients we had left were wilting. Our landlord called about rent, again. I’d stopped answering unknown numbers. I knew debt collectors were climbing their way toward me like zombies with call center headsets. And as if the universe wasn’t done slapping me across the face, my boyfriend of two years… Brandon… called it quits.

Said the drama was “a lot.”

Said I was “angry all the time.”

Said he needed someone who was “more emotionally regulated.”

Emotionally regulated?

This man used to throw fits when I forgot to add lemon to his stupid detox smoothies.

“Is there someone else?” I asked him over the phone, barely able to feel my hands.

There was a long pause, long enough for me to know he was about to selle a lie.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen, Janelle. But yeah. I'm moving on. I advise you focus on salvaging what's left of your ruin”

That was the nail in the coffin. Or maybe the final kick while I was lying on the floor already bleeding out.

By Thursday, I was ready to give up. I told Lisa maybe it was time. Maybe I’d go back to working at some high-end hotel kitchen. Or maybe I’d sell the van and move back in with my aunt in Arizona.

And then the call came.

Blocked number…

I almost declined it…

Almost.

But something said… what if it’s a new client?

“Hello?” I said, trying to sound less like someone who cried in the walk-in fridge an hour ago.

A male voice. Smooth, crisp. Clipped syllables. “Miss Cross?”

“…Yes?”

“I was referred by a colleague. I’m in need of last-minute catering for a private estate dinner. Are you available for this weekend?”

Red flags? Oh yeah. A blocked number, no name, last-minute request?

“I’m not taking new clients right now,” I said, and was about to hang up when Lisa yanked the phone from my hand.

“She’ll call you back in ten,” she said and ended the call before I could snatch it back.

I stared at her. “Are you insane?”

She didn’t blink. “Are you? That could be rent. That could be groceries. That could be the rebranding you’ve been crying about since this mess started.”

“We don’t take blocked numbers.”

“Maybe he’s rich. Rich people love privacy.”

“That’s what serial killers also love!”

Lisa grinned. “You’ve cooked for celebrities, Janelle. Athletes. One guy with an entire harem. You survived that. You’ll survive this. We’re not in a position to be picky.”

I groaned and rubbed my temples. “You’re exhausting.”

“You’re broke.”

She had a point.

I sat down at my desk… well, the makeshift counter we used to chop vegetables and sign contracts… and stared at the missed call. My thumb hovered. My pride screamed don’t. But my bank account whispered you have $42.16.

I called back.

The same voice answered. Calm. Business-like. “Yes?”

I swallowed. “I’ll do it.”