Annie closed her eyes. She thought about the stack of medical bills sitting on her kitchen table. Her mother’s dialysis treatments were not covered by insurance anymore. She needed every cent. “Fine,” Annie whispered. “I’ll do it.” She smoothed her black skirt, adjusted her white collar, and picked up a fresh tray of aged scotch and caviar spoons. She pushed through the heavy velvet curtains into the vault room.
The atmosphere in the VIP room was different. It was quieter, sharper. The lighting was dimmer. Twelve men and four women sat around a massive circular table. They were not shouting to be heard. They whispered because they knew the world leaned in to listen to them. At the head of the table sat Sebastian Vance. He looked exactly like he did on the cover of Forbes, but colder. He wore a midnight-blue bespoke suit, his silver hair swept back perfectly. He was holding court, recounting a story about crushing a rival tech firm in Silicon Valley. “So I told him,” Vance chuckled, swirling his drink, “you can keep your integrity, or you can keep your house. You can’t have both.” The table erupted in sycophantic laughter.
Annie moved like a ghost, replacing coasters and refilling glasses. She made herself as small as possible. She knew the rule of the service industry. Be efficient. Be invisible. She reached Vance’s side. His glass was half full, but the ice had melted. A subtle violation of his standards. She reached out to swap the glass for a fresh one. “Leave it,” Vance said. His voice was not loud, but it cut through the laughter instantly. The table went silent. Annie froze, her hand hovering over the table. “I apologize, sir. I thought—” “You thought?” Vance turned in his chair, looking up at her. For the first time, he actually saw her. His eyes were pale blue, predatory, and devoid of warmth. He scanned her face, looking for a flaw, a tremble, a sign of weakness. He enjoyed making people uncomfortable. It was his favorite hobby outside of making money.
“I didn’t pay fifty thousand dollars a plate to have a waitress think for me,” Vance said, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “I paid for excellence.” “I’m sorry, Mr. Vance,” Annie said, keeping her gaze on the tablecloth. “It won’t happen again.” She tried to back away, but Vance raised a hand. “Wait.” The command was absolute. Annie stopped. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, a frantic bird in a cage. Don’t look at him, she told herself. Just survive the interaction.
Vance stood up. He was tall, imposing. He walked around the waitress, inspecting her like one might inspect a racehorse or a used car. The other guests watched with amusement. This was the dinner theater. Vance was bored, and he had found a toy. “What is your name?” Vance asked. “Annie, sir.” “Annie.” He tested the name on his tongue. “You seem tense, Annie. Are we making you nervous?” “No, sir. I just want to do my job well.” “Job?” Vance scoffed. He turned to the table. “You see, this is the problem with the modern workforce. No ambition. They are content to carry trays while we carry the world.” A few guests chuckled nervously, sensing Vance was escalating.