Chasing His Kickass Luna Back

Chapter 0340

I decide to stop at my usual local cafe for a cup of coffee, hoping that it will help calm my frayed nerves.

But as I step inside, I’m greeted by a familiar sight on the cafe’s television screen.

A news channel is broadcasting a report about the Alpha gathering disaster, and my face is front and

center. The headline reads,“Caterer Abby Under Fire for Alpha Party Food Poisoning.”

I feel the weight of the world crashing down on me as I order a coffee to go. The barista eyes me

sympathetically, but I can’t bear to stay in the cafe a moment longer. I grab my coffee and make a hasty

exit, my heart pounding with the knowledge that, no matter how hard I try, people just hate me now.

Whatever happened to ‘innocent until proven guilty’? Content held by NôvelDrama.Org.

Finally, I arrive home after what feels like an eternity, and the solitude of my apartment offers some

relief from the relentless scrutiny of the outside world. I slump into a chair and bury my face in my

hands, trying to block out the hurtful words and accusations that still echo in my mind.

But my moment of solitude is short-lived as my phone rings, the shrill sound slicing through the air. I

glance at the caller ID, and it’s an unknown number. My first instinct is to let it go to voicemail, but

curiosity gets the better of me, and I answer.

“Hello?” I say cautiously.

“Is this Chef Abby, the caterer for the Alpha gathering?” a female voice on the other end asks.

I swallow hard, my throat tight with anxiety. “Yes, this is Abby. Who’s calling?”

“Hello,” the woman says. “My name is Patricia Koehler. I’m a journalist from the Daily News. Do you

have a moment?”

As she speaks, I can feel my throat clench. Mr. Thompson warned me that this would happen. And he

was crystal clear when he told me that Icannotdo any interviews. Considering that I’m already in deep

enough trouble as it is, I know it’s best to listen to his advice, no matter how badly I want to attempt to

make people see the light on my own.

I take a moment to gather my thoughts, and then I respond with a heavy sigh, “I’m sorry, but I cannot

comment at this time.”

The journalist pauses before clearing her throat. “Are you sure? I only need a few minutes—”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t comment,” I repeat. “Have a nice day.”

The journalist continues to try to convince me, but I ignore her. I hang up without another word, then

toss my phone down on the opposite end of the couch with a sigh.

None of it makes any sense.

So I need to do some investigating of my own.