Who Ruby Called
I hit the marble floor first, taking the brunt of the impact against my shoulder and arm. A sharp, searing pain sliced across my forearm as a shattered wine glass splintered beneath us, sending a spray of red wine and glass across the polished floor.
Margaret landed heavily on top of me, sobbing and disoriented, her small, frail frame shaking uncontrollably as she clutched the fabric of my uniform.
"You're okay," I gasped, keeping my voice as steady as possible despite the white-hot pain radiating up my arm. "I've got you, Margaret. You're safe."
Cordelia Whitlock towered over us, her furious expression devoid of a single drop of remorse—only cold, sharp irritation.
"This ridiculous spectacle is entirely her own fault," Cordelia declared, gesturing dismissively at the trembling woman on the floor. "Wandering around where she doesn't belong, touching people's personal property like a common vagrant."
I looked up at her, a cold, blinding fury eclipsing the pain in my arm. Whatever wealth, pedigree, or status Cordelia Whitlock believed granted her immunity, I was not going to let her rewrite what had just happened.
"You shoved an elderly woman with severe dementia onto a marble floor," I said, my voice ringing out with crystal clarity that silenced the surrounding tables. "In front of dozens of witnesses."
"Cordelia! What the hell did you do?!"
A man's voice cut through the dining room, sharp and furious. I turned to see a tall man in a bespoke suit striding quickly toward us, his face set in a hard scowl—Marcus Whitlock, her husband.
"Marcus, don't listen to her, this waitress is being hysterically dramatic," Cordelia chimed in smoothly, folding her arms. "The old woman simply lost her balance and tumbled over."
"You pushed her," I stated, locking eyes with her and refusing to yield an inch. "I watched you slap her hand away, then shove her hard enough to send her flying backward. I threw my own body underneath her specifically to stop her head from cracking open on the stone."
Marcus Whitlock turned his gaze down to me, his posture radiating a icy, condescending arrogance.
"Listen to me, you worthless waitress," Marcus hissed, his voice carrying clearly across the silent, stunned restaurant. "Do not dare ruin my family's reputation with your cheap, fraudulent accusations."
I felt the warm blood soaking through my apron sleeve, dripping onto the white tile. Looking into Marcus's cold eyes, I felt no fear—only an absolute, uncompromising resolve.
I reached into my apron pocket. I didn't pull out my mother's handkerchief to stem the bleeding. Instead, my fingers closed around my phone, and I dialed the private direct line August Vance had handed me only minutes ago—the number he told me to call if anything went wrong while he stepped outside to take his call.
It didn't even complete a full ring.
"Ruby," August's voice answered, calm, authoritative, and immediately alert. "What's wrong?"
I looked straight up into Marcus Whitlock's arrogant face and spoke into the receiver: "I need you back inside the dining room. Right now."