The Waitress With a PhD Who Silenced a Arrogant And Rude Billionaire
Chapter 3
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So, she smiled and said, "I'll put your orders in right away, sir."As she walked to the kitchen, she heard Theodore's voice drift after her: "Hoffnungslos. Völlig hoffnungslos." Hopeless. Completely hopeless.The word followed her through the rest of her shift. It followed her as she served their meals, as she refilled their water glasses, as she brought them dessert. Theodore continued his performance, speaking German exclusively, making comments about her intelligence, her appearance, her worth as a human being. And Camille said nothing. She simply smiled and did her job, because that was all she could do.When Theodore finally left, he dropped a $20 bill on the table. The meal had cost $300. $20 was an insult disguised as a tip, and they both knew it. Camille picked up the bill, folded it carefully, and put it in her apron pocket. $20 toward her mother's medication. $20 closer to keeping the lights on.As she cleared the table, she noticed Theodore had left his business card, probably by accident. She picked it up, reading the embossed letters:Theodore Lancaster, CEO, Lancaster Holdings.Of course he was a CEO. Of course he was rich and powerful and used to getting everything he wanted. People like Theodore Lancaster never faced consequences. They never had to choose between pride and survival. They never had to smile while being torn apart.Camille put the card in her pocket next to the $20 bill. Then she finished clearing the table, her movements mechanical, her mind somewhere far away.That night, she rode the bus home through streets illuminated by bright streetlights. The city looked clean and orderly from the window, all straight lines and glowing signs, nothing like the chaos in her heart.Her apartment was on the third floor of an old building in a neighborhood that was trying to be nice, but hadn't quite made it yet. The stairs creaked under her feet. The hallway smelled like someone's cooking, something with garlic and onions.When she opened the door, her mother was waiting up. Gloria Johnson sat in her blue armchair, a blanket over her lap despite the warm evening. She was only 58, but looked older, her brown skin lined with worry, her black hair streaked with gray."How was work, baby?" Gloria asked, her voice soft.Camille set down her purse and forced a smile. "It was fine, Mama. How are you feeling?""Don't change the subject. I can see it in your face. Something happened."Camille sank onto the couch, suddenly exhausted. The bright yellow cushions were worn, but comfortable. "Just a difficult customer. Nothing I can't handle."Gloria studied her daughter with knowing eyes. "You're handling too much. You shouldn't have to handle any of this. If it wasn't for me—"