2025-05-25 23:55:27
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The manager arrived in a huff, a well-groomed man in a tailored navy suit, his graying temples doing nothing to dull the practiced smile on his face. But that smile vanished the moment he registered the tension in the room—the stares, the silence, the little girl sniffling against her father’s shoulder.“What seems to be the issue here?” he asked crisply.The waiter—still visibly sweating—immediately stepped forward, eager to offload the mess. “Sir, I was only following protocol. The gentleman,” he gestured subtly at Dylan like he was pointing at a broken chair, “didn’t appear to have the means to cover the bill. And since Miss Crestmoor is a VIP—”“I invited him,” Vivian snapped, stepping into the manager’s line of sight. “He’s with me.”The manager didn’t look at her right away. Instead, he turned—slowly, deliberately—to Dylan. His gaze swept from Dylan’s scuffed shoes, to his threadbare coat, to the worn leather of the wallet now resting on the white tablecloth. His nostrils flared
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The waiter returned, his expression tight with apprehension but trying to cling to some shred of authority. “Miss Crestmoor,” he began, hands wringing behind his back, “I really didn’t mean to disrespect you. It’s just… your guest,” he glanced briefly—dismissively—at Dylan, “clearly can’t cover the bill for two. It’s policy.”Vivian blinked, stunned silent for half a second. Then her voice dropped, dangerously soft. “Policy.”“Please don’t misunderstand,” he rushed to add, “You’re a VIP. Of course you are. We just… we have standards to maintain, and—”“And Dylan doesn’t meet them,” she finished, her tone pure ice. Her jaw ticked as she took a step forward. “So let me get this straight: You’d rather embarrass a guest in front of a full dining room—”“We weren’t trying to cause a scene,” he cut in defensively.Vivian’s laugh was short and humorless. “You didn’t cause a scene?” She turned slightly, sweeping her hand toward the room where half the tables were still turned toward them like
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Laughter rippled across the nearby tables—snide, stifled, and cruel.A blonde woman with a diamond choker leaned toward her date, stage-whispering with a chuckle, “Did you see his shoes? My gardener wears better.”Her date snorted into his wine. “And he thought he could afford dinner here? Maybe he’s doing a social experiment—‘How the Other Half Starves.’”At the bar, a couple swiveled in their stools to get a better look. The man grinned wide, elbowing his companion. “Is that the Crestmoor girl’s new charity case? Poor bastard’s in the wrong movie.”“I thought this was black tie, not thrift store chic,” the woman giggled, deliberately loud enough to carry.Even the piano player hesitated, fingers hovering over the keys like he didn’t want to be part of the scene unfolding. A note hung awkwardly in the air before he resumed playing—quieter now.Dylan’s ears burned. He could feel their eyes on him, their judgment crawling over his skin like biting ants. Every laugh was a slap. Every sn
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Dylan stood rooted for a second, his thoughts racing behind a tight expression. Crestmoor. That name had clawed its way through every bitter argument he’d ever overheard growing up—his father’s voice shaking with hatred as he blamed the Crestmoors for everything their family lost.He looked at Vivian again, careful to keep his face neutral. She didn’t know who he was. Not yet. And now wasn’t the time.Vivian took a small sip of her drink, watching him with a knowing sort of calm. “Are you alright?”“I’m fine,” Dylan said too quickly. “Just… surprised, I guess. I’ve heard of you.”Her smile was measured. “Most people have. But don’t worry—I don’t bite.”Before Dylan could respond, the same waiter from earlier returned, holding a sleek leather folio in one hand, grinning like a man who’d just won a bet. He placed the check in front of Vivian this time, his voice coated in syrupy mockery.“Here you are, ma’am. Whenever you’re ready.”Vivian gave him a short nod and reached for her purse…
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The air had settled, but only on the surface. Underneath Dylan’s skin, the fury still simmered like a pot barely kept from boiling over. He forced his grip on the utensils to stay steady as Dolly picked up her fork again, cautiously eyeing him.“Is it okay now, Daddy?” she whispered.Dylan offered a tight smile and nodded. “Yeah, baby. Just eat. It’s spaghetti night, remember?”She beamed at that, the tension momentarily melting from her small shoulders. But Dylan’s focus flickered toward the kitchen doors—just as a thin waiter with slicked-back hair and an overly stiff walk approached their table. He held their plates with exaggerated grace, but something in his narrowed eyes made Dylan’s stomach twist.“Spaghetti and meatballs,” the waiter said flatly, placing Dolly’s plate down with a thud that rattled the cutlery. Then, as he leaned to serve Dylan’s meal, he tilted the dish just a little too much.Hot marinara sauce sloshed toward Dylan’s lap. He jerked back instinctively, narrowl
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The air thickened with tension, pressing down like a storm cloud about to burst.“I said,” the man repeated, his smug grin widening, “this place isn’t for the likes of you. You’re embarrassing yourself and—frankly—ruining the view for the rest of us.”Dylan’s jaw twitched, his fists clenching at his sides. He glanced down at Dolly—her lip was trembling, her big eyes brimming with confusion and the threat of tears. His heart twisted.“Daddy…” she whispered, her voice so small it barely reached his ears. “Can we go home?”That was the breaking point.“No, baby,” Dylan said softly, crouching down beside her chair. “We’re staying. You wanted spaghetti, remember? And dessert too. We’re going to enjoy dinner—just like everyone else here.”The man scoffed. “How noble. Shame doesn’t feed the bill though, does it?”The scraping of chairs and shuffling feet signaled the shifting interest of the other patrons, many now openly watching, murmuring.“I asked you to stop,” Dylan said, standing tall
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