Chapter 2: Shadows in the Staff Quarters
The heavy oak doors of the dining room swung shut, muting the ambient murmur of the restaurant into a distant, hollow hum. I let out a long, shaky breath that I felt all the way down to my sensible black shoes. My fingers were trembling now, the adrenaline drain leaving me cold despite the warm candlelight still flickering in the chandeliers overhead.
"Clara," Arthur said quietly, stepping closer and tossing his towel onto a nearby sideboard. He looked down at the stray coins still resting on the tablecloth before meeting my eyes. "Do you know who that was? That was Julian Vance. Half the commercial real leases in this county have his name on them."
"I know who he is, Arthur," I said, bending down to carefully pick up a shard of the broken ceramic cup, wrapping it in a spare napkin so it wouldn't cut my palm. "He acted like an animal. If we let men like that break our plates and buy their way out with loose cash, we aren't running a restaurant anymore. We're running a playground for bullies."
"I'm not worried about the plate," Arthur sighed, running a thick hand over his face. "I'm worried about you. You've got enough on your plate—literally and figuratively—without making an enemy of a man who can buy this block before breakfast."
I didn't answer right away. I walked over to the service station and tossed the wrapped ceramic shard into the waste bin. In the small mirror mounted above the service sink, I caught a glimpse of my own reflection. The dark bruising around my eyes, fading from deep purple to a sickly greenish-yellow, caught the overhead bulb. It was a silent testament to another kind of violence, one that lived behind closed doors rather than in formal dining rooms. Standing up to Julian Vance wasn't an act of reckless bravery; it was simply the only way I knew how to prove to myself that I wasn't entirely powerless.
"He won't be back," I said softly, smoothing down the front of my white apron. "Men like that don't return to places where they've been embarrassed. They send letters, or they send lawyers. They don't walk back through the front door."
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"I hope you're right," Arthur muttered, picking up the remaining stack of cash Julian had left behind and tossing it onto the wooden counter. "Put that in the register. And take off that apron. You've had a rough shift. Go on back to the locker room."
I nodded, untying the cloth strings at my waist and folding the white apron neatly over my arm. The walk down the narrow hallway to the staff lockers felt longer than usual. The air smelled of bleach and old coats, a stark contrast to the expensive cologne Julian Vance had left lingering in the dining room. I sat down on the narrow wooden bench, unpinning my dark hair from its tight updo and letting the heavy strands fall over my shoulders. My head throbbed in rhythm with my pulse. I pressed my palms against my temples, closing my eyes against the harsh fluorescent light of the locker room, wondering just how long I could keep holding the line.
