Chapter 2: Poisoned, Exposed, and Publicly Shamed

But as soon as I got home and before I could start typing, a sharp pain stabbed my stomach. Cold sweat poured down my forehead.

The pain hit me like a freight train. I doubled over, gasping, sweat pouring down my face. My vision blurred as I staggered to the bathroom.

Crap—did they poison the food?

The thought shot through my mind, wild and paranoid, but I couldn’t shake it. My stomach twisted, chills racking my body.

Clutching my stomach, I curled up on the floor—red as a boiled lobster.

I barely made it to the living room before collapsing. My skin was bright red, limbs trembling. If anyone had seen me, they would’ve thought I’d spent the afternoon in a tanning bed gone wrong.

Using the last of my strength, I dialed 911 before passing out.

My fingers fumbled with the phone, but I managed to dial. I croaked out my address, then everything went black.

When I opened my eyes again, I wasn’t in the afterlife. I was lying weakly in a hospital bed, the smell of disinfectant everywhere.

The lights were too bright, the sheets stiff and scratchy. Machines beeped softly nearby. It took a moment for my brain to catch up, but when it did, I almost cried with relief.

Thank goodness—I was still alive!

I took a shaky breath, fighting back tears. Whatever else happened, at least I’d made it through the night.

The doctor checked me over and said it was food poisoning. He said it was lucky I called for help, because if I’d waited any longer, I might not have made it.

He was calm but serious, explaining that whatever I’d eaten had been contaminated. "You’re lucky," he said. "Another hour and it could’ve been a lot worse." I nodded, still too weak to argue.

One phrase stuck out to me:

[Food poisoning?]

The words echoed in my head, bouncing around like a warning siren. This couldn’t be happening. Was it really that barbecue?

It had to be from that barbecue meal!

There was no other explanation. I’d barely eaten anything else all day. My anger flared up all over again. Seriously?

I grabbed my phone and searched the restaurant’s name. Sure enough, the barbecue place was being live-streamed.

I found a local news feed on Facebook—there they were, the same couple, standing in front of the restaurant, reporters crowding around. My heart pounded as I watched.

A bunch of reporters were at the door with cameras, interviewing the couple.

Microphones in their faces, cameras flashing. The couple looked annoyed, not even a shred of guilt.

I sneered. Finally, karma’s come for you!

I couldn’t help but smile, even though my stomach was still in knots. At least someone was holding them accountable.

[Did the customer’s food poisoning have anything to do with your ingredients?]

[Did you add anything else to the barbecue?]

[Do you have a health permit?]

The questions came rapid-fire, the reporters pressing in. The couple looked more and more uncomfortable, but they didn’t back down.

The couple didn’t look the least bit guilty—still acting high and mighty.

The woman stood with her arms crossed, chin up, eyes cold. The man glared at the cameras, refusing to answer half the questions. Unreal.

The lady told the reporters not to believe rumors:

[Other customers ate our barbecue just fine. Only those two got sick—it’s their own fault!]

She said it like it was gospel, as if the problem was with us, not her food. I rolled my eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck.

Two people? Did Marcus get hit too?

My stomach dropped. I grabbed my phone, hands shaking, and shot Marcus a quick text.

My phone buzzed—a text from Marcus. He’d also gotten food poisoning and was in the same hospital, just a different room.

"You too? Guess we’re both VIPs tonight. Room 204 if you wanna swap war stories." I managed a weak smile. Of course. Just my luck.

The old man doubled down for the reporters:

[Our hygiene is top-notch. Those two just want to scam us for money.]

He puffed out his chest, staring straight into the camera. "We run a clean kitchen. Those two are just after a quick buck."

The lady chimed in:

[They nitpicked everything that night. I’ve seen plenty of people trying to pull this kind of stunt.]

She was in full-on attack mode, painting us as troublemakers. My jaw clenched. I wanted to scream at the screen.

The couple refused to admit any fault, but the media wouldn’t let up. No one’s that gullible.

The reporters kept pressing, not letting them off the hook. I felt a little flicker of hope—maybe, just maybe, the truth would come out.

With both sides at a stalemate, things were getting tense.

The air in the hospital room felt thick, like a storm was about to break. I watched the live feed, unable to look away. My nerves were shot.

"Stop right there!"

A middle-aged man in a suit suddenly appeared on camera.

He strode into frame, all business, waving a folder at the reporters. The couple’s faces lit up with relief. My gut dropped.

I recognized him—he was my boss!

My heart skipped a beat. Of all the people to show up, it had to be Mr. Hill. I felt a cold knot in my stomach. Seriously?

I never expected the couple’s son to be him!

I stared at the screen, stunned. Marcus texted: "You seeing this? No way."

He spoke firmly to the camera, saying the two hospitalized people had nothing to do with his family’s barbecue place. He even brought witnesses—a pair of elderly customers who’d also eaten there that night and showed their receipts.

He laid it all out, cool and confident. "My parents’ restaurant serves dozens of people every night. These two are the only ones complaining. Here are witnesses who ate the same food and are just fine." The reporters scribbled notes, some skeptical, some nodding along.

That move eased most of the reporters’ doubts.

Within minutes, the tone of the coverage shifted. The crowd outside started to thin. I watched, feeling a mix of anger and helplessness. Unbelievable.

Someone tried to ask more questions, but the boss waved them off, saying the media was damaging the restaurant’s reputation and business, and that he’d take legal action if necessary. He chased them all away.

He threatened lawsuits, called the coverage slander. The reporters backed off, not wanting to risk a court case. Just like that, the story started to fade. Money talks, I guess.

I shook my head, realizing how naïve I’d been. Does money really have the power to twist the truth?

I stared at my phone, feeling hollow. It wasn’t fair, but what could I do? The world wasn’t built for people like me. Not unless you have connections.

But what if the money runs out?

I wondered if there would ever be justice, or if people like the Hills would always get away with it—at least until the tables turned. A little part of me hoped karma was still out there, waiting.