The Challenge
“Get out.”
Naomi Carter froze.
For half a second, the words seemed almost unreal.
The restaurant around her continued moving. Silverware clinked against porcelain. A waiter hurried toward the kitchen carrying three plates. Somewhere near the bar, a woman laughed at something her companion had said.
But at Table Twelve, everything had stopped.
Naomi stood perfectly still.
In her right hand was a bottle of wine.
In her left was the small black order pad she had carried through six years of waiting tables.
The man sitting across from her stared at her as though she were an inconvenience that had somehow learned to speak.
His name was Victor Langley.
Everyone at the restaurant knew him.
Not because he came often, but because people like Victor Langley did not have to come often to be remembered.
He owned several hotels, had investments in commercial real estate, and had recently become one of the restaurant's most important private-event clients. His suit probably cost more than Naomi made in three months. His watch sat beneath the cuff of his white shirt like a small piece of polished machinery.
And tonight, he was surrounded by four friends who were laughing quietly into their glasses.
Naomi looked at him.
“Excuse me?”
Victor leaned back.
“I said get out.”
His friends stopped laughing.
Naomi glanced down at the table.
There were six people sitting around it. Five men and one woman. The woman, a sharply dressed blonde named Claire, looked uncomfortable.
“Mr. Langley,” Naomi said carefully, “if there’s a problem with your order, I can get my manager.”
“It isn't the order.”
“Then I'm not sure I understand.”
Victor picked up his wineglass.
“You're making my guests uncomfortable.”
Naomi looked at the other people.
None of them met her eyes.
She had learned something during six years in restaurants.
People often became very brave when someone else was being humiliated.
She had also learned not to react immediately.
Never react immediately.
That had been one of the first lessons her mother taught her.
Anger makes you show the other person where you are vulnerable.
So Naomi kept her voice calm.
“I apologize if I made anyone uncomfortable. I was only here to take your order.”
Victor smiled.
It wasn't a friendly smile.
“That's exactly the problem.”
Naomi frowned.
“I'm sorry?”
Victor looked at her uniform.
“You're not what I expected.”
The restaurant suddenly seemed colder.
Naomi had heard variations of those words before.
Not you're rude.
Not you're slow.
Not you made a mistake.
Instead:
You're not what I expected.
Sometimes it meant her clothes.
Sometimes it meant her accent.
Sometimes it meant the assumption that a woman carrying plates could not possibly have a life beyond the dining room.
Naomi straightened.
“I don't understand.”
Victor placed his glass down.
“Six years serving tables.”
He glanced at her hands.
“You must know your place by now.”
One of his friends laughed.
Naomi's jaw tightened.
She could have walked away.
She wanted to.
But then Victor reached into his jacket and placed something on the table.
A folded piece of paper.
He pushed it toward her.
“There's a challenge on that.”
Naomi stared at the paper.
“What kind of challenge?”
Victor's smile widened.
“The kind you can't refuse.”
Claire suddenly looked at him.
“Victor, that's enough.”
He ignored her.
Naomi didn't touch the paper.
“What is this?”
Victor leaned forward.
“You've been telling people you deserve a better life.”
Naomi's stomach tightened.
She had no idea what he was talking about.
“I haven't been telling anyone anything.”
“Oh, you have.”
Victor glanced toward the bar.
“People talk.”
Naomi's eyes narrowed.
“About me?”
“About everyone.”
He tapped the paper.
“I heard you're trying to leave this place. Go back to school. Start some business. Become something more than a waitress.”
The word waitress sounded deliberately insulting.
Naomi slowly placed the wine bottle on the table.
“I don't see how that's any of your business.”
“It isn't.”
Victor smiled.
“Unless you want it to be.”
Naomi looked at the paper again.
“What does the challenge say?”
Victor pushed it closer.
“Open it.”
She hesitated.
Then she unfolded the paper.
There were only three lines.
One night.
One test.
One hundred thousand dollars.
Naomi looked up.
The room seemed to tilt.
Victor watched her reaction.
“You pass, you get the money.”
“And if I don't?”
“You walk away.”
Naomi laughed once.
It was not a happy laugh.
“This is ridiculous.”
Victor shrugged.
“Then leave.”
She folded the paper.
“I will.”
Victor's expression changed.
He had expected hesitation.
Perhaps fear.
Perhaps greed.
But not that.
Naomi turned toward the kitchen.
“Wait.”
She stopped.
Victor stood.
He was taller than she had expected.
“I thought you wanted to become something more.”
Naomi turned back.
“I do.”
“Then prove it.”
He pointed toward the restaurant's private dining room.
“There is a man in there.”
Naomi frowned.
“Who?”
“His name is Daniel Cross.”
The name meant nothing to her.
Victor continued.
“He'll arrive in ten minutes.”
“And?”
“Serve him.”
Naomi blinked.
“That's my job.”
“No.”
Victor smiled.
“Not tonight.”
He leaned closer.
“I want you to make him reveal why he's really here.”
Naomi stared at him.
“What?”
“Daniel Cross is the most difficult man in this city to impress.”