“Sir?” Naomi asked softly, her voice smooth, neutral, and devoid of tremor.
Victor sighed heavily, tossing his cloth napkin onto the table with an exaggerated gesture of exhaustion. “I requested someone else. I asked the host at the entrance specifically when we walked in.”
“I can certainly ask the floor manager to reassign your table if you’re unsatisfied with the service, Mr. Hale,” Naomi replied, holding his gaze without flinching.
“No,” Victor said, leaning back and lacing his fingers over his broad stomach. “I don’t want another server assigned mid-meal to mess up the bill. I want someone competent. Someone who actually belongs in a place like this.”
A tense silence descended over Table Twelve. Mr. Chen and Mr. Zhao shifted uncomfortably in their seats, their eyes dropping toward their plates. Henry Lin, however, kept his gaze fixed on Naomi, his weathered face unreadable.
Naomi felt a cold, familiar spark ignite deep within her chest. It was a sensation she had known since childhood—the quiet, burning anger that comes from being judged and dismissed before ever being allowed to speak.
She had heard it in subtle and overt ways throughout her life. You don’t look like someone who belongs in an honors program.Are you sure you’re in the right lecture hall?People like you should be grateful for an entry-level position.She had learned to absorb these barbs, converting them not into explosive outbursts, but into iron determination.
“I have been managing your table with complete attention all evening, sir,” Naomi said, her tone remaining impeccably professional. “Everything has been served precisely according to your timing.”
“And I appreciate the basic manual labor,” Victor sneered, his voice loud enough to carry to Table Eleven and Table Thirteen. “But this is an international business transaction. I need an educated environment. I need someone who understands the nuances of high-society service.”
“I graduated from Stanford University,” Naomi said plainly.
Victor burst into a brief, bark-like laugh. It was a harsh, mocking sound that drew the attention of several nearby tables.
“Sure you did,” Victor scoffed, rolling his eyes toward Henry Lin as if inviting him to join in the joke. “And I suppose you’re doing this shift between your duties at the Supreme Court? Don’t make things worse by lying, young lady.”
“I am not lying,” Naomi said, her hands steady, though her knuckles turned pale against the black cloth of her apron.
Victor leaned forward, his face darkening as he realized she was not backing down. His ego, stoked by alcohol and decades of unchecked authority, rebelled against the indignity of being contradicted by a server.
“Listen to me carefully,” Victor said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, condescending register. “I asked the management specifically for a server who speaks fluent Mandarin. My guests are distinguished executives from Shanghai. I wanted someone who could articulate the menu items properly in their language, not someone who relies on pointing at pictures.”
“I speak Mandarin,” Naomi stated directly.
Victor stared at her for two long seconds. Then he threw his head back and laughed even louder, attracting the glances of the floor manager, who began taking cautious steps toward the table from the service station.
“You?” Victor mocked. “You speak Mandarin?”
“Yes.”
“Fluently?”
“Yes, fluently.”
Victor’s eyes narrowed into slits of malignant amusement. He saw an opportunity to publicly humiliate someone who had dared to stand upright in his presence. He leaned over the table, placing his heavy elbows on the cloth.
“You don’t look like someone who speaks Mandarin,” Victor said, laying bare the ugly assumption that underlay his entire tirade.
Naomi stood tall, adjusting her posture. “Language is a matter of education and practice, Mr. Hale, not appearance.”
Across the table, Mr. Chen leaned toward Mr. Zhao and murmured a quiet sentence in rapid, colloquial Mandarin:
“Zhè gè měi guó rén zhēn shì tài wú lǐ le, tā gēn běn bù zhūn zhòng rén.”(This American is truly too rude, he has absolutely no respect for people.)
Naomi’s ears caught the cadence instantly. She understood every syllable, every inflection, and the deep distaste hidden behind Mr. Chen’s guarded tone.
Victor, completely ignorant of what his guest had just said, mistook Naomi’s moment of listening for hesitation. He smiled triumphantly, convinced he had exposed a bluff.
“See? You don’t have the slightest idea what they’re saying,” Victor said smugly. “You’re standing there making a fool of yourself in front of my investors.”
“I understood perfectly,” Naomi replied smoothly.
“Prove it,” Victor demanded, leaning back and gesturing broadly with his hand. “Prove it right now.”
“Would you like me to address your guests directly?” Naomi asked.
Victor’s eyes glinted with malicious glee. He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a sleek leather wallet, and extracted a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills bound by a paper band, throwing it carelessly onto the table beside the wine glasses.