Chapter 2 - THE MANAGER’S DILEMMA
Before Christopher could strike back, a frantic rustling echoed from the service corridor. My manager, sweating profusely despite the restaurant's crisp air conditioning, came jogging out of the back hallway, his face a mask of absolute terror.
“Mr. Hale! Mr. Hale, please!” my manager stammered, sliding to a halt beside the table, bowing his head apologetically. “I am so, so sorry! What is going on? Please, let us comp your entire meal, whatever you need—name it!”
Christopher didn’t look at the manager; his lethal glare remained fixed on me. “Fire her,” he commanded, his voice dropping into a flat, icy menace. “Fire her right now, escort her off the premises, and make sure she never works in the hospitality industry in this city ever again. If she isn’t out of this restaurant in two minutes, I’ll buy this building by midnight and turn it into a parking lot.”
The manager’s face went ghastly pale. He looked at me, his eyes pleading for me to just bow my head, apologize, and take the hit. He knew what Christopher Hale was capable of. A billionaire holding a grudge could blacklist a struggling worker across the entire state before breakfast.
“Mary,” my manager whispered, his voice trembling. “Please. Just... apologize to Mr. Hale.”
I looked down at my notepad. The eviction notice was still tucked tightly inside my purse in the employee locker. If I lost this job tonight, I wouldn't just be evicted; I would have zero dollars to feed myself or pay for the transit pass to get to my morning side-gig.
Silence stretched across the table. Christopher crossed his arms, wearing the smug, self-satisfied grin of a man who owned the world.
“Well?” Christopher prompted, tapping his expensive silver watch against his wrist. “We’re waiting.”
I took a deep, steadying breath. I looked past Christopher, my eyes finding Ethan, who was watching me with a look of desperate, heartbreaking concern, silently mouthing ‘don't’.
“No,” I said clearly.
The manager gasped. Christopher’s smug grin froze.
“I won’t apologize for treating a customer with basic human respect,” I continued, my voice steady and unyielding. “And if running a luxury restaurant means watching you humiliate your own son just to feel powerful, then quite frankly, keeping this apron on is an embarrassment.”
I unpinned my name tag—Mary Lin, Server—and dropped it neatly into the center of Christopher’s unfinished plate of oysters.
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“Have a wonderful evening, gentlemen,” I said.
Without waiting for another word, I turned on my heel and walked toward the back hallway, my head held higher than it had been all night.
