She’d learned to pick her battles. And these people with their designer bags and cutting remarks weren’t worth her energy. But that night, the air felt heavier like the world was holding its breath.
The VIP table was louder than usual, their voices carrying over the soft jazz playing in the background. Anna moved through the room, her tray balanced her face blank, but her eyes missed nothing. The man who’d sneered about the Bordeaux was Richard Vance, mid-fifties, with slicked back gray hair and a gold Rolex that caught the light every time he gestured.
He was a hedge fund king, the kind who’d talk about market volatility like it was a personality trait. His wife Candace sat beside him, her red dress tight, her lips glossy, her smile sharp enough to cut glass. She was the type who’d compliment your shoes while making sure you knew they were cheap.
Across from them was Derek, a 30-something crypto bro, with a tan too perfect for New York winters, and his girlfriend Lauren, whose blonde highlights and diamond earrings screamed new money. They were the worst kind of table loud and titled, and itching to make someone feel small. Anna was their favorite target.
As Anna approached with a fresh bottle of wine, Richard held up his glass, inspecting it like a jeweler. You missed a spot, he said, pointing to an imaginary smudge. Guess they don’t teach cleaning in whatever backwater you crawled out of.
The table laughed, Candace’s giggle the loudest. Anna paused, her fingers brushing the bottle’s neck, then set it down with a soft clink. I’ll get you a new glass, she said, her voice even her eyes steady.
She turned away, but not before Lauren leaned toward Derek loud enough for Anna to hear. She’s got no class. Bet she’s never even been to a place like this, except to scrub the floors.
Anna’s shoulders didn’t tense, her stride didn’t falter, but her hand lingered on the edge of her tray knuckles, pale for just a moment. The manager Greg was no better, a wiry guy with a permanent sheen of sweat on his forehead. He was always hovering, trying to keep the big spenders happy.
He caught Anna by the elbow as she passed the kitchen door, his voice low but harsh. Stay clear of the billionaire’s table. He doesn’t need you tripping over him.
He jerked his head toward the corner where James Colton sat alone. Colton was 35, lean with dark hair and eyes that didn’t miss much. His suit was understated but screamed money and his presence was like a magnet people noticed him without trying.
He was scrolling through his phone ignoring the room, but Anna caught his glance for half a second. She nodded at Greg, her voice flat. Understood.
She didn’t argue, didn’t explain. She just kept moving. Before the chaos hit, there was a moment, a small one, but heavy.
Anna was refilling a pitcher at the bar when she paused, her eyes catching on a small photo tucked into her apron pocket. It was old creased showing a younger Anna in fatigue standing next to a group of soldiers in a dusty courtyard. The bartender Mike noticed her staring.
Family, he asked, wiping down a glass. Anna slipped the photo back into her pocket, her face unreadable. Something like that she said and turned away.
Mike didn’t push. Nobody did. Anna wasn’t the kind to invite questions and most people didn’t care enough to ask.
But not everyone ignored her. A hostess Jenna, a 22 year old with a sharp tongue and a habit of sucking up to the rich guests caught Anna by the bar later that night. She was twirling a strand of her hair, her eyes glinting with something mean.
You know Anna, you should smile more. You’re bringing down the vibe. Nobody wants a gloomy waitress serving their $500 dinner.
Jenna’s voice was loud enough to draw a few glances from nearby tables. Anna set the pitcher down, her movements slow, deliberate. I’m here to work, not perform, she said her tone calm but firm…
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