The Waitress With a PhD Who Silenced a Arrogant And Rude Billionaire
Chapter 5
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"You're going to make me fat," Gloria said, but she picked up her fork.Camille poured two cups of coffee and sat across from her mother. For a few minutes, they ate in comfortable silence. These quiet mornings were Camille's favorite part of the day, before the world and its demands crashed in."You have the late shift today?" Gloria asked."Yes, ma'am. 2:00 to 10:00.""That man... the one who upset you yesterday. Is he a regular?"Camille hesitated. She didn't want to lie, but she didn't want to worry her mother, either. "He comes in sometimes. It's fine, Mama. I can handle it."Gloria set down her fork, her expression serious. "Camille, listen to me. I know you think you have to take care of me, and I'm grateful, baby. More grateful than I can say. But don't let people treat you poorly. Not for me. Not for anyone.""I'm not letting them treat me poorly. I'm doing my job.""There's a difference between doing your job and accepting disrespect." Gloria reached across the table, taking Camille's hand. "You are brilliant. You are educated. You are worth more than any of those people eating in that restaurant."Tears pricked at Camille's eyes, but she blinked them away. "I know, Mama. But knowing doesn't pay the bills.""No," Gloria said softly. "But it keeps your soul intact. Don't forget who you are because of where you work."After breakfast, Camille helped her mother to the living room and turned on the television. Then she retreated to her bedroom, closing the door quietly.Her laptop sat on a small desk by the window. She opened it, and there it was, her dissertation:The Evolution of Romance Languages in Post-War Europe: A Linguistic Analysis of Cultural Identity and Transformation. 147 pages. Three years of research. Incomplete.Camille scrolled through the document, reading passages she had written in Paris cafes, in the Sorbonne library, in her tiny apartment near the Latin Quarter. The words felt like they belonged to someone else now. That Camille—the scholar who debated philosophy over wine and discussed syntax patterns with professors—seemed impossibly far away.She closed the laptop without adding anything. What was the point? Even if she finished it, who would read it? How would she defend it? She couldn't afford to go back to Paris, couldn't afford to leave her mother. The dream was over. She just hadn't accepted it yet.At 1:30, Camille changed into her burgundy uniform and took the bus downtown. The Sterling Oak occupied the ground floor of a tall building, all glass windows and polished brass handles. Inside, the decor was cream and gold, with those bright crystal chandeliers that turned every meal into a performance.Mrs. Patterson was at the hostess stand, reviewing the reservation book. She looked up when Camille entered."Table seven requested you specifically," Mrs. Patterson said, her tone neutral.Camille's stomach dropped. "Mr. Lancaster?"