Chapter 2 - The Arrival
At 7:30 PM, the heavy mahogany front doors of The Golden Oak swung open.
Christopher Hale walked in like a man who owned not just the restaurant, but the ground it was built upon. He was in his late forties, sharply dressed in a bespoke charcoal-grey suit, a silver Rolex gleaming on his wrist. His dark hair was silvering at the temples, giving him a distinguished look that was completely negated by the arrogance etched into his features.
Flanking him were two broad-shouldered bodyguards in black suits, along with three corporate associates—wealthy men who laughed at Hale's jokes before he even finished telling them.
"Ah, Mr. Hale! Welcome back to The Golden Oak," Julian gushed, bowing slightly as he escorted the group to Table 4.
Hale didn't bother looking at Julian. He pulled out his own chair, sat down, and unbuttoned his jacket. His associates took their seats around him, instantly filling the air with loud chatter about stock options, yacht purchases, and corporate takeovers.
Mary took a deep, steadying breath, smoothed down her white apron, and approached the table with a leather menu tucked under her arm.
"Good evening, Mr. Hale. Welcome to The Golden Oak. My name is Mary, and I will be taking care of—"
"Champagne," Hale interrupted without making eye contact, waving a dismissive hand. "The 2008 Dom Pérignon. And don't bring it warm like the last idiot did."
His associates chuckled obediently.
"Right away, sir," Mary said calmly, keeping her voice even despite the sting of his tone.
She turned on her heel, retrieved the champagne from the sommelier, and returned to pour it with practiced precision. Over the next twenty minutes, serving Table 4 felt like navigating a minefield. Hale and his companions treated her not as a person, but as a invisible automation. They barked orders, demanded extra sauces, complained about the lighting, and made derogatory comments about the staff, clearly testing how much abuse she would absorb.
Mary kept her head down, repeating her internal mantra: $1,800. Just survive the night.
Then, the main entrance opened once more.
A young man stepped inside. He stood in stark contrast to the opulence around him. He wore faded jeans, sneakers, and a crimson hoodie pulled over his shoulders. He looked to be around nineteen or twenty, with messy brown hair falling over his forehead. He looked anxious, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he scanned the grand dining room.
As he turned his head slightly toward the warm light of the chandeliers, Mary caught sight of the sleek, skin-toned hearing aids fitted behind both of his ears.
Whispers immediately flickered through the nearby tables.
Ethan Hale. Christopher Hale’s son.
Ethan walked slowly toward Table 4, looking down at the floor as if trying to shrink away from the stares of the wealthy patrons. He reached the table and stood silently beside his father’s chair, waiting to be acknowledged.
Christopher didn't look up. He continued slicing his steak, laughing loudly at a joke made by one of his associates.
Seconds turned into a painful minute. Ethan hovered awkwardly, his fingers clutching the hem of his red hoodie. Finally, with visible hesitation, Ethan reached out and gently tapped his father's shoulder.
Christopher snapped his head around, his face twisting into an expression of profound irritation.
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"Late," Christopher barked, his voice carrying across the quieted dining room. "Sit down and stop embarrassing me."
Ethan's shoulders slumped instantly. He didn't speak. He simply pulled out a chair at the far end of the long table, sat down, and stared at his hands folded tightly in his lap.
