There was a brief pause on the other end of the line—subtle, but noticeable. Then Francine’s voice came, clipped and defensive.
“Russ Donovan? Who’s that? I don’t know anyone by that name.”
She didn’t give me a chance to respond before continuing sharply, “Jim, unlike you, I don’t have the luxury of sitting around all day doing nothing. Do you have any idea how busy I am? Don’t waste my time with these ridiculous questions again.”
Click. The line went dead.
I stared at the screen for a long moment, phone still pressed to my ear.
By all logic, I should’ve felt relieved. She denied it. That should’ve been enough.
But it wasn’t.
Her tone had been too forced. Her words rushed, almost rehearsed. And that pause—long enough to think, to calculate—spoke louder than anything else. It didn’t sound like innocent confusion. It sounded like someone caught off guard and scrambling to cover her tracks.
Before I could process further, my earpiece crackled with the voice of the floor foreman.
“Table 7, private room. They want wine service—specifically asked for you.”
That was strange. Normally, as a low-level temp waiter, I wouldn't be personally requested.
The foreman added, more urgently this time, “Get yourself together and be careful in there. We cannot afford to mess this up.”
As I retrieved the wine from the counter—a bottle of Château Lafite worth over 15,000 dollars—I couldn’t help but wonder who exactly was waiting behind that door.
Who had the kind of clout to make even the management tread lightly?
I reached the private room and knocked. A voice from inside called out, “Come in!”
The room was buzzing. Laughter and clinking glasses filled the air. Seven or eight men sat around the table, deep in celebration.
And there he was—Russ Donovan—seated at the head of the table like a king on his throne.
Beside him, as expected, sat Rich, grinning like a sycophant.
The others were all familiar faces—heirs, rich kids, the usual second-generation elites of Sundown City. All of them raised their glasses, eager to toast, to flatter, to impress.
I narrowed my eyes.
Now it made sense why I had been summoned. This wasn’t about wine service—it was a setup.
Yet strangely, neither Russ Donovan nor Rich acknowledged me when I walked in. They kept chatting among themselves, as if I didn’t exist.
Had I imagined their attention earlier?
“Why are you just standing there?” someone near the door snapped, frowning at me. “Bring it in already.”
I moved forward, placed the wine bottle carefully on the table, and bowed slightly. “Enjoy your evening, gentlemen.”
Just as I turned to leave, a voice cut through the room like a blade.
“Stop right there.”
It was Rich. He hadn’t looked my way once until now—but suddenly, his voice rang with malicious glee.
He leaned back in his seat, a sneer curling on his lips.
“You really think we called you in here just to serve and walk out?”
I turned back with a polite, practiced smile, hiding the tension crawling under my skin. “Is there something else I can help with?”
Rich didn’t answer. Instead, he reached for a wine glass—though not the one filled with the red wine I had just delivered.
He held it up, the liquid inside a strange, murky yellow.
“This,” he said mockingly, “is a reward. Mr. Donovan is in a good mood tonight. Don’t say we never gave you a taste of the high life.”
“I’m sure you’ve never had wine this expensive before,” he added, his tone dripping with condescension. “Shouldn’t you be thanking Mr. Donovan?”
I didn’t miss the glint in his eye, or the expectant amusement on the faces around the table. They were all watching, waiting—like spectators at a circus, eager to see the monkey dance.
My gaze shifted to the glass again.
That wasn’t wine. Not even close.
A chill crept down my spine.
I knew that look Rich had given me before. I’d seen it in schoolyard bullies and boardroom predators. This wasn’t generosity—it was humiliation dressed up as a joke.
