When it was time for the check, Gwen brought the leather folder. Marcus took it, signing the bill without even looking at the total. He scribbled something on the receipt, then pulled out a thick black business card. He slid the folder back to Gwen. “Wait,” he commanded. She opened the folder. The bill had been for three hundred fifty dollars. On the tip line, Marcus Thorne had written five thousand. Gwen gasped. It was more than two months’ rent. It was her father’s next round of specialist appointments covered. But that was not all. Tucked under the clip was his business card. On the back, he had written, Thorne Tower. Tomorrow. 9:00 a.m. This is not a request. Gwen looked up, her mind racing. A bribe? An apology? A summons? “Mr. Thorne, I can’t accept this,” she said, pushing the folder back. “Yes, you can,” he said flatly. “It’s a tip for exceptional service.” His eyes flickered with something. A hint of the old arrogance, or maybe just desperation. “And that,” he tapped the business card, “is a job offer. Be there.”
He stood up, pulling his jacket straight. He nodded curtly to Gwen, then gently touched Leo’s shoulder. Time to go, he signed. It was a clumsy, poorly formed sign. The motion for go was correct, but he had used the wrong hand shape. Leo, however, understood. He gathered his drawing pad and pencils, slid out of the booth, and for the first time, he slipped his small hand into his father’s. As they walked away, Cynthia descended on the table like a vulture. “Well, did he complain? What did he say?” She spotted the bill folder, snatched it up, and saw the five-thousand-dollar tip. Her face went from red with anger to a pale, sickly green with jealousy. “What? What did you do?” she whispered, her voice laced with suspicion. “What did you say to him?” “I served him his dinner,” Gwen said, pocketing the business card. “Five thousand.” Cynthia stared at the number, her mind clearly racing, filling in a story of manipulation, of schemes. “You think you’re clever, don’t you?”
Gwen did not go to Thorne Tower the next morning. She told herself the card was a trap, a rich man’s way of buying the moment back. She cashed nothing. She showed up for her shift instead, and Cynthia was waiting with security already briefed. The story Cynthia told the owner was neat and poisonous. A waitress who had humiliated a billionaire, then angled for a private job, then refused it when the terms did not suit her. It sounded like a sordid, calculated scheme. And Gwen had just told Marcus Thorne, the only person who could vouch for her, that she wanted nothing to do with him. She was completely, utterly alone.
“You can’t do this,” Gwen whispered, the words tasting like ash. “That job. I need this job. My father, he’s sick. His medical bills.” “That’s really not my problem,” Cynthia said, her voice devoid of all empathy. “Maybe your new billionaire boyfriend can cover them. Oh, wait. Looks like that plan didn’t work out. How sad.” Tears of hot, helpless fury welled in Gwen’s eyes. She would not give this woman the satisfaction of seeing her cry. She turned on her heel, marched into the locker room, and grabbed her bag. She did not even clean out the locker. She just grabbed the one thing that mattered. The small folded-up drawing of the dragon. Two large security guards were waiting for her at the staff exit. They walked her out of the building like a common criminal.