The broken plate echoed like thunder.
Max bent quickly, muttering apologies, hands shaking as he swept up shards with a rag.
Sasha stood frozen, rage rising in her throat — but this time, there was no Debbie to yell at, no convenient scapegoat.
Just her. And Max. And a growing pile of dishes.
Luis whispered, "It's one plate. Let him breathe."
Sasha snapped, "We can't afford mistakes!"
Her voice was too loud, sharp, the kind that cuts.
The kitchen fell silent for a beat.
Max's face turned red, his eyes darting anywhere but at her.
Carla appeared from around the corner, arms crossed.
"What's going on?"
Sasha opened her mouth, then closed it.
Luis jumped in, "Max broke a plate. That's it."
Carla looked at Sasha. "Come with me."
In the office, Carla shut the door gently.
Sasha stood stiffly, arms crossed, jaw tight.
Carla spoke softly. "You're a good worker. That's why I kept you. But leading means shouldering pressure. Not passing it down."
Sasha exhaled. "I wasn't trying to— I just—"
Carla held up a hand. "No one expects you to be perfect. But yelling at the new kid won't make you better than her."
Her. Debbie.
Sasha swallowed hard. "I'm not Debbie."
"No," Carla said. "But in moments like that, could someone watching tell the difference?"
Silence.
Back in the kitchen, Sasha approached Max.
"I'm sorry. That was out of line."
Max nodded, still tense. "It's okay."
But it wasn't okay, and Sasha knew it.