Theodore Lancaster sat at table seven, his navy suit perfectly tailored, his silver watch catching the light. Three business associates surrounded him, all laughing at something he had just said. When Camille approached to take their order, Theodore looked up at her with cold gray eyes."Good evening," he said, his German smooth and practiced. "Wie geht es Ihnen? Ein Glas Eistee und eine Speisekarte, bitte."His companions chuckled. Camille's hand tightened on her notepad, but her smile never wavered. She didn't respond, simply pulled out her pen."Wollen Sie bestellen?" Theodore continued, speaking only in German now. "Oder ist das zu kompliziert für Sie und mich?" His tone dripped with condescension. The words meant, "Or is that too complicated for someone like you?"One of his associates, a shorter man with thinning hair, joined in. "Sie versteht kein Deutsch, Theodore. Verschwende nicht deine Zeit." She doesn't understand us. Don't waste your time.Theodore leaned back in his chair, studying Camille like she was an insect under glass. "Sie versteht uns nicht. Sie hat wahrscheinlich noch nie ein Buch gelesen." She doesn't understand us. She's probably never read a book.The laughter grew louder. Other diners turned to look. Camille felt heat rising in her cheeks, but she kept her expression neutral. She had learned, over these six brutal months, how to swallow humiliation, how to smile when her heart was breaking, how to serve people who looked through her like she was invisible."I'll give you a moment to decide," she said quietly in English, her voice steady.Theodore smirked. "Wie professionell. Sie hat so wenig Verständnis von uns." How professional. She even said a complete sentence.As Camille walked away, she heard them continuing their mockery in German. Every word landed like a stone in her chest. She went to the kitchen, set down her notepad, and took three deep breaths. Her hands trembled slightly."You okay?" Bethany Torres asked, her green uniform matching Camille's burgundy one in style. Bethany was the closest thing to a friend Camille had at the restaurant."I'm fine," Camille lied.But she wasn't fine. None of this was fine.Six months ago, Camille Johnson had been someone completely different. She had been a PhD candidate at the Sorbonne in Paris, studying linguistics and European literature. She had spent her mornings in ancient libraries, her afternoons in seminars discussing philosophy and language theory. She had been fluent in five languages, writing her dissertation on the evolution of Romance languages in post-war Europe. She had been happy.Then the call came. Her mother had collapsed at work in Chicago. Diabetes complications, the doctor said. Needed constant care. Needed expensive medication. Needed her daughter.