Chapter 3 - The Coworkers' Retaliation and the Tip
When Wren pushed through the kitchen swinging doors, the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
Derek was leaning against the stainless-steel prep table, tossing a lemon into the air and catching it with an irritating, cocky smirk. Nina stood beside him, scrubbing a wine glass with excessive force, while Miles stared intently at his fingernails, wishing he were anywhere else.
"Well?" Derek drawled, stepping directly into Wren’s path as she set her tray down. "Did he throw you out? Did he scream in Italian? How long before you were crying in the alley?"
Wren didn't flinch. She picked up a clean linen cloth and began wiping down the counter, her movements deliberate and calm.
"He didn't scream," Wren said quietly.
Nina paused, her rag hovering over the glass. "What do you mean, he didn't scream? We heard nothing. Did he freeze you out? Did he give you the silent treatment until you ran away?"
"He ordered his dinner," Wren replied, turning to face them with a level gaze that unnerved Derek instantly. "Ribeye, truffle fries, sparkling water. And an extra plate."
"An extra plate?" Derek scoffed, laughing a harsh, brittle sound. "What, did he offer you scraps? Is the big bad mafia boss trying to pick up waitresses with stale fries now?"
"He told me to eat," Wren said simply. "Because he noticed I was hungry. Unlike some people who spend their shifts trying to humiliate their coworkers for sport."
Nina's face flushed crimson. "Oh, please! Don't act all high and mighty, Wren. You're a charity case in this restaurant, just like your little brother—"
"Shut your mouth, Nina," Wren snapped, her voice dropping into a low, icy register that stopped the kitchen dead in its tracks. The years of carrying the weight of her family, of fighting for every inch of stability in a brutal city, leaked through her usually placid exterior. "Mention my brother again, and you won't need to worry about table nine. You'll be worrying about whether you can afford dental work."
Derek stepped forward, his chest puffed out, ready to escalate. But before he could speak, the kitchen service bell chimed—a sharp, imperative ding from the private dining room.
Order up.
Wren ignored Derek, lifted the heavy silver tray laden with Rafael Cortez’s dinner, and walked back down the dim hallway.
Twenty minutes later, after she had served the meal and quietly shared the second plate of food—eating half a steak and warm bread in absolute, companionable silence while Rafael reviewed documents on his tablet—she returned to clear the table.
Rafael didn't speak. He reached into his tailored black wool jacket, pulled out a thick, heavy envelope sealed with dark wax, and placed it next to his water glass.
When Wren picked up the tray, he tapped the table twice with his index finger—sign language for thank you.
Back in the breakroom at the end of her shift, Wren unsealed the heavy envelope. Inside sat ten crisp, hundred-dollar bills. One thousand dollars. A tip that exceeded her weekly earnings by a factor of four.
Tucked beneath the cash was a small, cream-colored card bearing a handwritten phone number and three words written in sharp, clean ink:
Call if needed. — R.
She stared at the paper as the breakroom door swung open and Derek peered in, his eyes widening at the sight of the cash in her hands.
"What... what is that?" Derek whispered, greed flickering across his face. "That's a grand. Give me half, Wren. I'm the one who gave you the table."
May you like
Wren slid the envelope into her jacket pocket, zipped it shut, and looked Derek dead in the eye.
"Earn it yourself," she said, walking past him into the rainy Detroit night.
