At one-thirty, Camille changed into her burgundy uniform and took the bus downtown. The Sterling Oak occupied the ground floor of a tall building, all glass windows and polished brass handles. Inside, the décor was cream and gold, with those bright crystal chandeliers that turned every meal into a performance. Mrs. Patterson was at the hostess stand, reviewing the reservation book. She looked up when Camille entered. “Table seven requested you specifically,” Mrs. Patterson said, her tone neutral. Camille’s stomach dropped. “Mr. Lancaster?” “Yes. He’s reserved the table for seven tonight.” Mrs. Patterson studied Camille’s face. “Is that going to be a problem?”
Everything in Camille wanted to say yes. Wanted to refuse. Wanted to maintain some dignity. But she thought of the medication bottles lined up in her kitchen. “No, ma’am,” she said. “No problem.” Mrs. Patterson nodded. “Good. He’s a valuable customer.” She paused, then added more quietly, “But if he crosses a line, you tell me. Valuable doesn’t mean he can do whatever he wants.” It was the closest thing to kindness Mrs. Patterson had ever shown her. Camille appreciated it, even if she knew she would not take the offer. She could not risk losing this job.
The afternoon shift passed slowly. Camille served lunch to businesspeople on break, families celebrating something, couples on dates. She smiled and took orders and brought food and cleared plates. The work was repetitive, but there was a rhythm to it that was almost soothing. Bethany worked the same shift. During a brief lull around four, they stood together near the kitchen, folding napkins. “I heard Lancaster requested you,” Bethany said. She wore her dark hair in a bun, and her brown eyes were sympathetic. “That guy’s a jerk.” “It’s fine,” Camille said automatically. “No, it’s not. I saw how he treated you yesterday.” Bethany lowered her voice. “James wanted to spit in his food.”
Despite everything, Camille smiled. James Kim was the head cook, a stocky man with a dry sense of humor and zero patience for rude customers. “Tell James I appreciate the thought, but please don’t actually do it.” “He won’t. But the thought counts, right?” Bethany finished her napkin stack and looked at Camille seriously. “Why does he pick on you? Is it because—” She trailed off, but Camille understood the question. “Maybe. Or maybe he just enjoys being cruel. Some people do.” “Well, I think you’re better than this place. Better than any of us, actually. You should be doing something bigger.” Camille’s throat tightened. “Thank you, Bethany. That means a lot.”
At six forty-five, Theodore Lancaster arrived. He wore a different suit today, charcoal gray with a blue tie, but the same cold expression. He was alone this time, which somehow felt worse. When cruelty had an audience, at least it made some twisted sense. But cruelty in private was just meanness for its own sake. Mrs. Patterson seated him at table seven. Camille took a deep breath, smoothed her burgundy dress, and walked over. “Good evening, sir. Can I start you with something to drink?”
Theodore looked up from his phone. “Guten Abend. Ein Glas von Ihrem besten Rotwein.” Good evening, waitress. A glass of your best red wine. He was doing it again. Speaking only in German, testing her, mocking her. “I’ll bring that right away,” Camille said evenly. She brought the wine, a glass of expensive cabernet that cost thirty dollars. Theodore swirled it, sniffed it, took a sip, all while watching her with those cold gray eyes. “Acceptable,” he said. Then, continuing in German, “Tell me, does it bother you? Being treated like you’re invisible? Or are you simply too dim to notice?”