Chapter 2 - THE PRICE OF A RUINED SUIT
By hour 7 of her shift, the ache in Paige’s lower back had bypassed a dull throb and settled into a sharp electrical burn. The Onyx Room was the kind of restaurant where a single steak cost more than Paige’s monthly water bill. The lighting was impossibly dim, the jazz was live but unobtrusive, and the clientele spoke in hushed, wealthy murmurs.
The waitstaff were expected to be ghosts: invisible, silent, and perfect.
Paige was none of those things tonight.
She was exhausted.
Her left heel had a blister the size of a quarter, and her right wrist was wrapped in a nude-colored compression bandage hidden beneath the cuff of her crisp white uniform. Pouring wine, carrying trays of searing-hot ceramic plates, and smiling through the condescension of tech executives and hedge fund managers had worn the joint down to a fraying thread.
Then Roman Gallow walked in.
The atmosphere physically changed.
It was not a shift in the lighting or music, but something closer to a sudden drop in barometric pressure. Forks stopped scraping against porcelain. Conversations ended in the middle of sentences.
Paige was standing near the wait station, refilling a massive crystal water pitcher, when she saw him.
Roman did not swagger. He did not have a cigar clamped between his teeth or flashy gold rings on his fingers. He wore a charcoal-gray suit that draped over his broad shoulders with architectural precision. His dark hair was neatly parted and threaded with premature silver at the temples. His face was a study in hard angles, dominated by dark, tired eyes that scanned the room with the detached efficiency of a predator assessing a sparse watering hole.
He was flanked by 2 men who wore their suits like armor.
“Table 4.”
Arthur, the floor manager, materialized beside Paige. He was already sweating, the vein in his neck pulsing wildly.
“Gallow. He takes the corner booth. No eye contact. No small talk. Just pour the water, hand him the menu, and get out of the blast radius. Do you understand me, Paige?”
“I’ve got it.”
She hoisted the heavy crystal pitcher.
Her wrist gave a faint warning twinge.
She ignored it.
Rent was due in 4 days, and Arthur was looking for any excuse to cut staff.
Paige navigated the narrow spaces between tables with her eyes fixed on the empty glass near Roman’s right hand. He was already seated and was not looking at the menu. Instead, he stared through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the rain-slicked city streets.
Paige approached from his right and aimed the pitcher’s spout toward his glass.
Just pour and leave.
She tilted the pitcher.
Something popped inside her wrist.
It felt like a rubber band snapping against bone.
The muscle simply gave out.
Her hand went limp.
The heavy crystal pitcher pitched forward.
Time did not slow down. That was a myth. It happened with brutal, terrifying speed.
The pitcher slipped from her grip, slammed against the edge of the mahogany table, and tipped directly into Roman Gallow’s lap. A gallon of ice water garnished with sharp wedges of lemon cascaded over the charcoal wool.
The pitcher hit the floor and exploded.
Ice cubes skittered across the polished marble, sounding like gravel thrown against a window.
The silence that followed was absolute.
The jazz trio stopped playing. The low murmur of the dining room vanished. The only sound was the steady drip of ice water falling from the edge of the mahogany table.
Paige could not breathe.
Her lungs felt filled with cement.
She stared at the water soaking into Roman’s jacket, turning the expensive gray wool dark. A single slice of lemon rested perfectly on his knee.
One of his guards, a massive man with a flattened nose, stepped forward with a hand moving inside his jacket.
Roman did not flinch.
He did not react to the cold.
Slowly, he turned his head and looked at Paige.
Up close, his eyes were not merely dark. They seemed completely hollow. There was no rage in them, only an endless, freezing calm.
“I—” Paige began, her voice sounding like dry leaves. “My wrist. I’m—I am so sorry.”
Roman looked at the lemon slice on his knee.
He picked it up between his thumb and forefinger and placed it gently on the table.
“Get her a towel.”
Before Paige could move, Arthur appeared. He practically threw himself between Paige and the table, brandishing a stack of white linen napkins like a flag of surrender.
“Mr. Gallow, I cannot express the depth of my apologies. This girl is new. She’s clumsy. She’s fired. Immediately. We’ll cover the dry cleaning. We’ll cover the cost of the suit. Your meals are on the house for the rest of the year.”
Roman raised a single hand.
Barely an inch.
Arthur snapped his mouth shut so quickly his teeth clicked.
Roman slowly stood.
Water ran down his trousers and pooled inside his expensive leather Oxfords. He did not look ridiculous, which somehow made the situation worse. He looked like a man who had just waded through a river to reach his target.
He took a linen napkin from Arthur’s trembling hand and slowly patted the lapel of his jacket.
Then he looked past the manager toward Paige.
“You’re firing her.”
It was not a question.
“Yes. Yes, absolutely.” Arthur nodded frantically. “She’s done.”
A hollow ache opened in Paige’s stomach.
Fired.
No rent money.
No health insurance.
She looked at the broken glass scattered across the floor, and anger began to override her fear.
She was tired of being terrified.
She was simply tired.
“Don’t fire her,” Roman said, tossing the damp napkin onto the table.
Arthur blinked.
“I—excuse me?”
“I said don’t fire her.”
Roman stepped around the puddle and stopped inches from Paige. He smelled of rain, sharp aftershave, and cold, damp wool. He was a full head taller than her.
“What’s your name?”
Paige forced herself to meet his eyes.
“Paige.”
“Well, Paige, this suit was custom-cut in Milan. The wool is Loro Piana. It costs $6,000. If he fires you, you have no income. If you have no income, you can’t pay me back.”
A short, bitter laugh escaped Paige before she could stop it.
“Pay you back? I make $14 an hour plus tips. It would take me a year to pay for your jacket.”
The guard with the flattened nose shifted and scowled at her tone.
Roman only watched her.
“Then you’d better get to work.”
He reached into the inside pocket that had escaped the water and removed a heavy matte-black card. He held it between 2 long fingers.
Paige hesitated before taking it.
The card contained only an address.
No name.
No telephone number.
“Friday. 8:00 p.m.,” Roman said as he turned away. “Wear black.”
The silence around Roman made Paige think of the silences in her childhood home, when everyone waited to discover what mood her father had brought through the door. She hated that her body remembered fear faster than her mind could reject it. Yet she noticed something the diners missed: Roman had looked at her injured wrist before he looked at the ruined suit. It might have meant nothing. Men like him could afford to be mysterious because other people paid for their mistakes.
After he left, Arthur ordered the staff to resume service. The jazz musicians started again with a hesitant melody, and guests returned to their conversations, grateful to have witnessed a scandal they could retell over dessert. Paige swept the glass herself despite the pain. A dishwasher named Mateo silently took the broom from her hand. She thanked him, then went to the restroom and cried for precisely ninety seconds. When she returned, she finished the shift. She did not yet know whether the black card represented a job, a threat, or the beginning of a disaster.
Later, when the restaurant emptied, Mateo found Paige sitting on an overturned crate by the loading door. He offered her half a sandwich wrapped in wax paper. She accepted it because her hands were still shaking too badly to make one herself. “That guy didn't look angry,” Mateo said. Paige shook her head. “That's what scares me.” Mateo promised to cover her next shift if she needed a day off. The offer was small and practical and so unlike Arthur's frantic performance that she almost cried again.
May you like
She walked home beneath wet streetlights, replaying Roman's words. The debt made no sense. He could have bought a dozen identical suits before breakfast. Why insist on repayment from someone whose entire savings would barely cover a button? The answer, she suspected, had less to do with money than with control. She resolved to remember that suspicion no matter how polite he seemed.
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