Then he looked up at Angela like she was a stain on his evening.
“Angela?” he said, voice carrying. “Come on. Let my girlfriend see you properly.”
Nikki’s eyes traveled up and down Angela’s uniform slowly, as if she were appraising furniture.
“So you’re the wife,” Nikki said, sweetly, with poison tucked behind her teeth.
David nodded. “Yes. This is my low-life waitress wife.”
There it was. Not an accident. Not a slip. A line delivered cleanly, like he’d practiced it in the car.
Nikki laughed. “I can see why you moved on.”
The air tightened. A man at a nearby table cleared his throat and didn’t know why. A woman lowered her wine glass and stared openly. Someone in the back lifted a phone, the screen glowing faintly.
Angela stepped forward because it was her job and because dignity is sometimes simply refusing to be moved by someone else’s storm.
“Good evening,” she said calmly. “May I start you with something to drink?”
David leaned back, enjoying himself. “Look at her. So polite. So… trained.”
Angela’s fingers didn’t tremble. She held her notepad steady, pen poised.
David gestured toward her uniform like it offended him. “This is who she is. Just a waitress. And here I am with a real woman.”
Nikki’s laugh rang out again, louder. “My love, you really settled for less.”
Angela met Nikki’s eyes, not sharply, not with challenge, but with a quiet steadiness that made Nikki’s smile flicker for half a second.
People think silence is surrender. Often it’s not.
Often it’s control.
David took a slow breath, savoring the attention. Then he smiled the way a man smiles when he believes cruelty will finally win him applause.
“You know what’s funny?” he said to Nikki, loud enough for nearby tables.
Nikki leaned in. “What?”
“She only understands basic English. Nothing beyond that.”
Nikki raised an eyebrow, interested. “Really?”
David nodded, proud. “She never went to school. She’s illiterate.”
Angela’s face didn’t change.
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