Karate Champion Picked the Wrong Waitress to Impress His Friends — Then the Room Fell Silent
Chapter 7
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When she walked through the heavy wooden doors, the atmosphere was already toxic. Standing in the center of the dining room was Garrett Vandenberg himself—a wealthy, imposing man in a tailored charcoal suit, wearing an expression that suggested he smelled something rotting. Next to him stood Derek, his wrist heavily wrapped in an exaggerated, bulky medical brace, looking incredibly smug. Mr. Henderson was hovering near them, wringing his hands like a wet towel."There she is," Derek sneered, pointing at Harper with his good hand. "The psycho.""Ah, the liability," Garrett said, his voice dripping with venomous corporate authority. He turned to Henderson. "I want her terminated immediately. I want it in writing. And I want a public apology posted on this restaurant's social media pages within the hour, or I will pull my corporate accounts and bankrupt this establishment by Thanksgiving.""Of course, Mr. Vandenberg," Henderson squeaked, looking at Harper with apologetic, cowardly eyes. "Harper... I need your apron. You're... you're let go."Harper didn't argue; she didn't defend herself. She knew how the world worked: wealth and influence always carried a heavier stick than truth and justice. She calmly untied her apron, draped it over a chair, and began walking toward the employee break room to clean out her locker."That's right, walk away!" Derek taunted, his voice echoing in the empty restaurant. "You got lucky yesterday. If I wasn't exhausted from my tournament, I would have put you in the hospital! You're nothing but a washed-up waitress!""Actually," a deep, booming voice echoed from the front entrance, "she's one of the most lethal submission grapplers this country has ever produced."Everyone turned. Standing in the doorway was a man who looked like he had been chiseled out of solid granite. He wore a fitted black T-shirt bearing the silver logo of Vanguard Syndicate, the most prestigious MMA training camp in the Midwest. His ears bore the distinctive cauliflower thickening of a lifelong grappler. It was Donovan Cross—a legendary head coach, a former world champion, and the man responsible for producing three current UFC titleholders.Donovan walked slowly into the dining room, his boots thudding against the hardwood floor. He ignored Garrett and walked straight up to Derek, looking down at the young man with an expression of pure, unadulterated pity."I saw the video," Donovan said, his voice a low rumble. "You telegraphed that grip like an amateur, kid. If she hadn't gone easy on you, you'd be in surgery right now having your elbow reconstructed.""Who the hell are you?" Garrett snapped, stepping forward to protect his son. "This is a private conversation.""I'm the guy who is about to make her a very rich woman," Donovan replied, turning his gaze away from the Vandenbergs and focusing entirely on Harper, who had stopped in her tracks. Donovan smiled—a genuine, warm expression that didn't match his intimidating physique. "Hello, Harper. It took my entire analytics team six hours to track you down. You dropped off the map.""I got hurt, Donovan," Harper said softly, crossing her arms over her chest. "I couldn't afford the surgery; I couldn't afford to train. I had to pay the bills.""I know," Donovan said gently. "But hiding out in a diner serving lukewarm beer to amateur-hour bullies—that's a tragedy, Hellfire. The sport missed you."