I Was Just A Waiter — Until I Exposed An Eighty Million Dollar Trap At Table Seven
Part 2
“Ma’am, do not sign that contract,” I said, my voice cutting sharply through the hushed intimacy of table seven.
The scratching of the heavy silver pen stopped instantly.
Three heads snapped up to look at me.
Heather’s expression was flat and mildly annoyed by the sudden interruption.
Giovanni frowned, his thick eyebrows pulling together in a heavy scowl.
Greg looked up, his polite smile faltering as a flicker of genuine panic crossed his eyes.
“Yes,” Heather asked.
Her tone was pure ice.
“Is there a problem with the bill?” she demanded softly.
I stood frozen for two excruciating seconds, my throat feeling like it was lined with rough sandpaper.
The ambient chatter of the restaurant seemed to drop away entirely, leaving only the hum of the air conditioning.
I looked directly at Greg.
Greg glared back, giving a minute, sharp shake of his head to warn me off.
I took a deep breath and stepped closer to the table, ignoring the translator and the magnate completely.
“Because your translator is lying to you,” I told her firmly.
Silence slammed down on the table like a physical weight.
Greg turned the sickly color of old parchment.
“This is outrageous,” Greg sputtered, his voice cracking slightly.
“Miss Campbell, this man is clearly unhinged, and I will get the manager immediately,” he stammered, his chair scraping loudly.
“Sit down, Greg,” Heather snapped, her eyes never leaving my face.
Greg dropped back into his chair as if his strings had been abruptly cut.
Heather studied me carefully, taking in my cheap uniform, my tired eyes, and the sheen of nervous sweat on my forehead.
“You have exactly five seconds to explain why you are interrupting my dinner, or I will have you removed by security,” she warned.
My stomach did a violent flip, but I planted my feet firmly on the carpet.
I turned to Giovanni and spoke in rapid, perfectly accented Italian.
“She didn’t agree to sell her drivers out, and she knows exactly that you plan to gut her company, you piece of shit,” I told him.
Giovanni’s mouth fell wide open.
The color drained from his face, replaced rapidly by a flush of dark, violent red.
He stared at me as if a stray dog had just stood up and recited a Shakespearean sonnet.
Heather looked at Giovanni’s shocked, guilty expression, and then at Greg’s pale, sweating face.
The puzzle pieces were clicking together in her mind at lightning speed.
“Translate what you just said to him,” Heather commanded me, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper.
“Miss Campbell, please, you cannot listen to the help,” Greg pleaded, reaching out to cover the contract.
Heather slammed her hand down over Greg’s, pinning his fingers forcefully to the table.
“If you open your mouth again, Greg, I will have my legal team bury you so deep you won’t see daylight until the next century,” she threatened.
She turned her intense gaze back to me.
“Speak,” she ordered.
I swallowed hard and told her exactly what Greg had said about the restructuring clause on page forty-two.
She stared at the legal jargon for what felt like an eternity, and I braced myself to be thrown out—but would she actually believe a desperate waiter over her own highly-paid translator?
