Chapter 3
The crisp linen napkin felt heavy in my pocket, the fountain pen ink still slightly tacky against the fabric as I clutched it like a lifeline. I walked briskly back toward the service pantry through the heavy velvet curtains, my heart hammering a chaotic rhythm against my ribs. But before I could even untie the white apron from my waist, Mr. Henderson, the catering manager, stepped out from the shadows of the doorway, his face mottled with furious purple rage, his clipboard clutched so tightly in his thick fingers that the paper crumpled under his grip.
What do you think you are doing out there, Elena?
His voice was a harsh hiss meant to carry only across the tiled floor of the pantry, but the sheer malice in his tone vibrated through the small room.
You’ve humiliated this company, you’ve fraternized with the guests, and you abandoned your service station during peak hours. Hand over that tray and get out right now; you're finished here.
He reached out a heavy hand to grab my wrist, intending to strip the linen napkin from my pocket, but I jerked my arm back, stepping out of his reach with a cold fury that silenced him for a heartbeat.
May you like
I’m not finished, Mr. Henderson, because I’m already resigning.
I pulled the grey maid uniform cap from my head and tossed it onto the stainless steel prep table, watching the small white apron follow it a second later. Henderson stared at me, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water as the realization hit him that he had no leverage left over someone who had nothing left to lose. I turned my back on him, walking straight past the rows of hanging pots and industrial ovens, pushing through the heavy service doors into the cool, damp night air of the alleyway. The roar of the city traffic washed over me, but my fingers remained clamped around the napkin in my pocket, the fifty-thousand-dollar gamble no longer a distant abstraction, but a burning reality I intended to collect.
