Chapter 1: Table Nine Needs Their Check
The low murmur of the upscale dining room felt miles away once the heavy mahogany door of the breakroom clicked shut. I dropped my leather check-book onto the laminate counter and pressed my palms against the cool surface, trying to steady the fine, relentless tremor in my fingers. My reddish hair, pinned back in a tight, regulation bun, felt suddenly heavy, every stray strand stuck to the sweat at the nape of my neck.
"What were you thinking, Sophie?"
I didn't need to turn around to recognize Marcus’s voice. The other waiter leaned against the lockers, his white button-down shirt unbuttoned at the collar, wiping his hands on a damp side towel. His expression wasn't angry; it was worse—it was saturated with a cold, protective dread.
"I didn't do anything," I whispered, my voice sounding thin even to my own ears. "The elderly woman dropped her napkin. I stepped over to pick it up, and then—"
"And then you were standing inches away from Antonio Vance," Marcus interrupted, lowering his voice until it barely carried across the cramped room. He stepped closer, his dark eyes scanning my face as if searching for bruises or bullet holes. "People don't just talk to Antonio. They certainly don't look him in the eye when he's with his inner circle. Eleanor keeps him grounded, sure, but Vance? Vance owns half the commercial real estate on the east side and three-quarters of the city council. You don't linger at his table."
"He didn't yell at me," I said defensively, though the memory of his heavy, unblinking stare in the dim chandelier light made my stomach twist into a hard knot.
"Yet," Marcus shot back, shaking his head. "He doesn't yell. That's not his style. When Vance is unhappy, people just stop showing up to work. Or they pack up their apartments at three in the morning and move to Ohio." He sighed, running a hand over his short dark hair. "Look, just... stay off the main floor for the rest of the night. Do the kitchen prep, wash the glassware, anything. I'll take Table Nine."
"Marcus, I'm fine. I can handle my section," I insisted, though my knees felt hollow.
Before he could argue back, the small service bell above the door chimed, and our shift manager poked his head in. "Sophie, Table Nine needs their check," he said briskly, his eyes darting away before they could quite meet mine. "Just drop it on the silver tray and walk away. Don't look at them. Don't say anything."
The manager vanished back into the warmth and clatter of the restaurant, leaving a heavy silence in the breakroom. Marcus looked at me, his jaw tight. "Well. Go on then."
I forced my feet to move. Every step back out toward the dark wood paneling and crystal chandeliers felt like walking down a long, narrow corridor toward an inescapable verdict. The ambient classical piano seemed to slow, each note dropping like a lead weight into the quiet space between the tables.
When I reached the perimeter of Table Nine, the air grew noticeably colder. Eleanor sat upright in her dark lace dress, her pearl necklace catching the amber glow of the wall sconces. She didn't look at me as I approached, her attention fixed quietly on a glass of sparkling water. Antonio Vance sat across from her, his black double-embroidered suit jacket buttoned over a sharp white shirt, the silver pocket watch chain glinting faintly against his vest. He didn't blink. He just watched me with that hardened, unreadable expression, the memory of his low, gravelly voice echoing in my mind: You just earned my respect.
I didn't speak. I placed the silver tray on the white tablecloth, my movements practiced and mechanical, and turned on my heel without a word.
Twenty minutes later, the restaurant was closing down. The last of the patrons had drifted out into the cool night air, leaving the floor staff to wipe down stations and count tips. Standing alone by the employee sink, I reached automatically into the deep pocket of my black apron. My fingers brushed against the smooth, curved edges of plastic.
May you like
I pulled it out into the dim light. The beaded pill organizer—small, translucent, divided into seven neat compartments filled with the pale pink and white capsules I needed to keep my chronic fatigue at bay—was entirely untouched. I hadn't even had a chance to take my evening dose during the commotion.
I clutched the small plastic case tightly in my fist, the little plastic bumps pressing painfully into my palm. Through the glass doors of the restaurant, the empty sidewalk stretched out under the yellow glare of streetlamps. I grabbed my canvas bag from the locker, pulled my coat over my white button-down shirt, and stepped out into the night, a heavy sense of foreboding settling deep in my chest.
