Chapter 3 - The Escalation of Cruelty
The cold marble seeped through the thin fabric of Emily’s uniform skirt, chilling her to the bone.
Grant’s friends leaned over the edge of the table, aiming the high-definition lenses of their phones directly at her face.
"Make sure you get the angle right, bro," one of them laughed, zooming in on her trembling hands.
"The caption has to be: When the minimum-wage help forgets her place at Le Miroir."
Emily took a cloth napkin and began dabbing at the pool of red wine, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the floor.
She refused to look at their sneering faces.
She refused to give them the satisfaction of hearing her beg or cry out.
Grant stood over her, casually swirling the ice in his glass, watching her every movement with the sadistic curiosity of a boy burning ants under a magnifying glass.
"Look at that, Vance," Grant mocked, looking down at the top of Emily's head.
"She cleans quite well on her knees."
"Perhaps you should demote her from server to full-time scrubber."
Julian Vance gave an oily, uncomfortable laugh, nodding along like a cowardly lapdog.
"Whatever pleases you, Mr. Thorne," Vance said, anxious to de-escalate the scene before it caused a walkout among the older diners.
"Once she finishes, I will assign Claire to take over your table personally."
"No way," Grant snapped instantly, his eyes narrowing with cruel delight.
"Claire isn't half as entertaining."
"Emily stays right here."
"She’s our designated server for the rest of the night."
Grant stepped backward, kicking the wet napkin slightly with the toe of his shoe.
"Get up, Emily," Grant commanded softly.
"Bring us the Wagyu ribeye, rare, and a round of Macallan 25."
"And don't take forever, or I might get clumsy with my glass again."
Emily stood up slowly, her knees aching from the hard floor.
Her hands were stained with red wine, making them look as though they were covered in dried blood.
She bowed her head, gathered the soiled linens onto a tray, and walked toward the kitchen with measured, steady steps.
As soon as the double doors swung shut behind her, Claire rushed forward, grabbing a clean damp towel to wash Emily’s hands.
"Emily, please, let me go to Vance and tell him you're feeling sick," Claire begged, tears of frustration shining in her eyes.
"You can't go back out there."
"They are drunk, they are vicious, and they are using you as a punching bag!"
"I have to go back, Claire," Emily whispered, her voice dangerously flat, devoid of all emotion.
"If I walk out right now, Vance will withhold my final paycheck."
"Mom's oncology team needs the payment by eight o’clock tomorrow morning, or they won't release the chemotherapy dose."
"I have four hours left of this shift."
"I can survive four hours."
"It’s just noise, Claire. It’s just meaningless words from pathetic men."
Claire grabbed Emily’s forearms, looking deeply into her exhausted eyes.
"It’s not just words, Em. Look at Grant Thorne."
"He’s escalating."
"Men like him don't stop when you give in; they push harder until something completely breaks."
Emily didn't answer.
She washed her hands with antibacterial soap, scrubbing until her skin was raw and pink.
She took a fresh apron from the pantry, tied it around her waist, and checked her appearance in the service mirror.
Her chestnut hair was still neatly pinned, though a few loose strands framed her pale face.
She picked up the tray of twenty-five-year-old single malt scotch and pushed back through the kitchen doors.
For the next two hours, Table Twelve subjected Emily to an endless barrage of psychological torment.
Grant ordered rare steaks, only to claim they were overcooked the moment Emily placed them on the table.
When she brought back medium-rare cuts, he claimed they were cold and demanded fresh sides of truffled potatoes.
He asked for extra ice, then complained within thirty seconds that the ice was diluting his scotch.
He dropped his silver fork onto the floor four separate times, watching with an arrogant grin as Emily bent down each time to retrieve it and replace it with a sanitized utensil.
Every single time she approached the table, the phones came out.
Grant’s friends were broadcasting the entire ordeal to their hundreds of thousands of social media followers.
Comments flashed across their screens in real time:
LMAO Grant is terrorizing the waitstaff again!
Bro, make her carry a full tray of water glasses on her head!
Rich boy energy, love to see it!
The neighboring tables began to empty out as the clock drifted past eleven thirty.
Many patrons requested their checks early, uncomfortable with the blatant cruelty unfolding in the center of the room.
Julian Vance stood near the bar, watching the departures with sweating anxiety, yet he never once stepped in to stop Grant.
Grant’s table had already accumulated a tab exceeding thirty thousand dollars in rare liquor alone.
To Vance, thirty thousand dollars was worth any amount of a server’s suffering.
At quarter to midnight, Grant suddenly slammed his palms onto the mahogany table.
The loud crack startled the remaining staff into dead silence.
Grant stood up, swaying slightly from the immense amount of alcohol he had consumed.
He looked around the empty, cavernous dining room with a triumphant, wicked smirk.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Staff of Le Miroir!" Grant announced loudly, projecting his voice across the room like a circus ringmaster.
"We have reached the grand finale of the evening!"
His friends immediately stood up, forming a semicircle around Table Twelve, their phones held high with recording lights blazing.
Emily felt an icy, suffocating dread plunge into her gut.
She took two steps backward, intending to retreat into the safety of the pantry hallway.
"Emily!" Grant’s voice barked across the room, sharp and commanding.
"Where do you think you're going?"
"Come back here."
Emily stopped, her hands clutching her order pad to her chest like a fragile shield.
"The kitchen is closing, Mr. Thorne," Emily said, maintaining whatever shred of dignity she had left.
"I will prepare your final check."
"I didn't ask for the check, sweetheart," Grant said, his smile widening into something truly demonic.
"I asked for you to step forward."
"We have a special tip for you tonight."
"A cash tip of twenty thousand dollars."
Grant reached into his designer coat and pulled out a thick envelope wrapped in a bank band.
He tossed it onto the center of the table with a heavy thud.
"All yours, Emily," Grant whispered, his eyes gleaming with dark intent.
"Enough to pay off whatever pathetic little debts make you look so miserable every day."
"You just have to participate in our final joke."
Emily stared at the envelope, feeling an overwhelming sense of revulsion.
"No thank you, sir," Emily stated firmly.
"I only accept standard tips for service rendered."
"I will bring your receipt."
May you like
She turned to walk away, but before she could take another step, two of Grant’s hulking companions stepped into her path, blocking the kitchen entrance with their broad shoulders.
"Nobody walks away from Grant when he's offering a gift, sweetheart," one of them sneered, grabbing Emily roughly by her upper arms.
