Fifteen more minutes passed before another server appeared with Ethan's chicken. By this point, Isabelle had finished most of her pasta.
"Finally," Ethan muttered under his breath, pulling the plate toward him.
He cut into the chicken and immediately noticed something was wrong. It was overcooked. Seriously overcooked. The meat was dry and tough, barely any juice coming out when he pressed his fork into it.
Ethan took a bite anyway, chewing the rubbery texture with growing frustration.
"How is it?" Isabelle asked politely.
"It's... fine," Ethan lied, forcing himself to swallow.
The kitchen door banged open again, and a server nearly collided with their table while carrying a tray.
"Sorry!" the server called over his shoulder, not bothering to stop.
Ethan's grip on his fork tightened.
This entire evening was a disaster. The worst table in the restaurant, forgotten by the servers, wrong orders, terrible food—everything that could go wrong was going wrong.
