“Get out.”
Naomi Carter froze.
For half a second, the words seemed almost unreal.
The restaurant around her continued moving. Silverware clinked against porcelain. A waiter hurried toward the kitchen carrying three plates. Somewhere near the bar, a woman laughed at something her companion had said.
But at table twelve, everything had stopped.
Naomi stood perfectly still.
In her right hand was a bottle of wine.
In her left was the small black order pad she had carried through six years of waiting tables.
Across from her sat Victor Hale.
He was sixty-two years old, wealthy enough to own several office buildings in San Francisco, arrogant enough to believe everyone knew his name, and influential enough that restaurant managers usually became nervous when they saw him walk through the door.
Tonight, he was entertaining three businessmen from Shanghai.
The dinner was supposed to be important.
Very important.
The guests were considering investing in one of Victor's largest projects, a proposed waterfront technology and residential complex that would cost nearly a billion dollars to complete.
Victor had spent the first hour of dinner behaving like a man determined to convince everyone at the table that he had personally invented success.
He had talked about his private aircraft.
He had mentioned his vacation home in Napa.
He had told a story about meeting a senator at a charity event.
He had casually mentioned that one of the buildings visible through the restaurant's windows belonged to him.
His guests had listened politely.
They had said little.
Naomi had noticed that.
She had also noticed that they seemed more interested in one another than in Victor.
But she had said nothing.
She was a waitress.
Her job was to serve food, refill glasses, and stay out of conversations that did not concern her.
At least, that was what Victor believed.
Now he looked at her as though she were an inconvenience.
“I said get out,” he repeated.
Naomi slowly placed the wine bottle on the table.
“Sir?”
Victor sighed.
“I requested someone else.”
Naomi glanced toward the guests.
The oldest of the three men, a silver-haired businessman named Henry Lin, was watching her carefully.
“I can ask the floor manager to assign another server,” Naomi said.
“No.”
Victor leaned back in his chair.
“I don't want another server.”
Naomi waited.
“I want someone competent.”
A strange silence followed.
One of the other men lowered his eyes.
Naomi felt something tighten inside her chest.
She had heard insults before.
She had been called slow.
She had been told she was too quiet.
She had been asked whether she was “really” a college graduate.
Once, a customer had looked at her and said, “People like you should be grateful to have a job.”
She had learned to absorb those comments without allowing them to become permanent wounds.
But there was something different about Victor.
He wasn't merely being rude.
He had decided that she was incapable before she had even spoken.
“I've been taking care of your table all evening,” Naomi said.
“And I appreciate your effort.”
His tone made it obvious that he didn't.
“But I need someone educated.”
Naomi stared at him.
“I graduated from Stanford.”
Victor laughed.
It wasn't a friendly laugh.
It was the short, dismissive laugh of someone who had already decided the answer before asking the question.
“Sure you did.”
Naomi's fingers tightened around her order pad.
She had promised herself she wouldn't argue with customers.
She had promised herself many things over the years.
Still, she said:
“I did.”
Victor looked toward his guests.
“You hear this?”
The men exchanged glances.
Henry Lin remained silent.
Victor turned back to Naomi.
“I asked for someone who speaks Mandarin.”
Naomi answered quietly.
“I do.”
Victor blinked.
Then he laughed again.
“You?”