The Waitress With a PhD Who Silenced a Arrogant And Rude Billionaire
Chapter 12
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"—is fine for one evening. You're going to burn out if you don't take care of yourself." Bethany's brown eyes were determined. "James and I are going to that diner on 5th Street. Just coffee and conversation. Come with us."Camille wanted to refuse. But the thought of going straight home, of sitting in that small apartment with her exhaustion and her mother's concerned looks, felt overwhelming. "Okay," she said. "Just for an hour."The diner was bright and cheerful, with red booths and a black-and-white checkered floor. They sat in a corner booth, nursing coffee and sharing a plate of fries. James told stories about his early days in Chicago, when he'd first immigrated from Korea and barely spoke English. Bethany talked about her family, her three younger brothers, her dreams of becoming a teacher.And Camille, hesitantly at first, told them about Paris: about the Sorbonne, about her studies and her dissertation and the life she'd left behind."Wait, you speak German?" James asked, his eyes wide. "Like, fluently?""Yes. And French, Italian, Spanish. I was studying linguistics."Bethany set down her coffee cup with a thunk. "So when Lancaster speaks German at you, you understand every word?"Camille nodded. "Every single word.""And you just let him?" James looked bewildered."What choice do I have? I need the job. I need the money.""You could put him in his place," Bethany said. "You could respond in German and watch his face fall.""And then what? He gets embarrassed and complains to Mrs. Patterson? I get fired? Then what happens to my mother?" Camille shook her head. "It's not worth it."James leaned back in the booth, studying her. "You're stronger than me. I would have snapped by now.""Strength doesn't have anything to do with it," Camille said quietly. "It's just survival."They talked for another hour, the conversation drifting to lighter topics. For a brief moment, sitting in that bright diner with people who treated her like an equal, Camille felt almost like herself again.But when she got home and helped her mother to bed, when she lay in her own small bed staring at the ceiling, the weight of it all came crashing back. Theodore Lancaster's German words echoed in her mind:Worthless. Invisible. Simple. Dim. And the worst part was, some small part of her was starting to believe him.October arrived with cooler weather and shorter days. The leaves on the trees lining Camille's street turned gold and red, a bright contrast to the gray sky. She watched them from the bus window on her way to work, thinking about the change in seasons and how nothing stayed the same forever—except this. This stayed the same: the uniform, the smile, the humiliation.Every Tuesday and Thursday, and now sometimes Fridays too: Theodore Lancaster at table seven.It had been six weeks since their first encounter: six weeks of German insults, of inadequate tips, of being treated like furniture. Camille had become expert at compartmentalizing, at separating herself from the experience. When Theodore spoke, she imagined herself somewhere else—Paris, usually, walking along the Seine at sunset, a book tucked under her arm.