Chapter 3 - The Secret in the Pocket
The atmosphere at Table Four had shifted.
The loud, boisterous laughter had settled into a low, intense murmur. Christopher Hale was leaning forward, speaking rapidly to Bradley, while the other two men nodded in agreement. Ethan sat in the same position, his hands still in his lap, his eyes fixed on the condensation pooling around his water glass.
As I approached, Christopher’s voice cut off abruptly. He looked up at me, his eyes tracking the bottle of champagne in my hands.
"Ah," Christopher said, his voice dripping with artificial warmth. "The translator returns."
I didn't answer. I stood beside him, using the white cloth to wipe the neck of the bottle before presenting the label. "The 2008 Dom Pérignon, Mr. Hale. Colder, as requested."
"Excellent," he said. He didn't offer his glass. Instead, he pointed toward the far end of the table. "Serve my son first. Since you two have such a close... connection."
The mockery was subtle, but it was there. His friends watched with eager, cruel eyes, waiting for the show.
I walked to the end of the table. As I poured the pale gold liquid into Ethan’s glass, my hand stayed steady, but my mind was focused on the young man’s face. Up close, I could see the faint lines of tension around his eyes. He looked older than his years—perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three—but there was a profound, exhausting weariness in his posture that made him look like an old man.
As the champagne filled his glass, Ethan suddenly reached out.
It wasn't a gesture. It was a physical touch. His fingers lightly brushed against my wrist—just enough to draw my attention without attracting the eyes of his father's bodyguards.
With his other hand, hidden beneath the drape of the heavy white tablecloth, he pressed a small, folded piece of paper into the palm of my hand.
My fingers instinctively closed around it.
"Thank you," Ethan said out loud. His voice was slightly flat, the typical cadence of someone who could not hear their own speech clearly, but it was clear enough for the entire table to hear.
Christopher Hale let out a sharp, mocking scoff from the other end of the table. "Look at that. He speaks. I thought we paid those Swiss specialists fifty thousand dollars a semester to teach you how to speak like a normal person, Ethan, not like a broken record."
Ethan’s jaw tightened, but he didn't look at his father. He kept his eyes on me, his gaze pleading.
Keep it safe, his eyes said.
I slipped my hand into my apron pocket, letting the small slip of paper slide down beside my eviction notice.
"Would you like to hear the specials for the main course, gentlemen?" I asked, turning back to Christopher, my voice completely professional.
"No," Christopher said, waving his hand dismissively. "Just bring us the porterhouse. Medium-rare. And don't make us wait another twenty minutes."
"Of course, sir."
I bowed my head and withdrew.
Once I was back in the service hallway, hidden behind the large ornamental screen near the kitchen, I pulled the slip of paper from my pocket. It was a high-quality, heavy vellum paper—the kind used for corporate letterheads.
On it, written in a hurried, elegant script, was a address in the Gold Coast district and a single sentence:
1402 Astor Street. 10:00 PM. Please. I need someone who can speak for me.
My breath hitched.
Astor Street was the most expensive residential block in Chicago. The houses there were historic stone mansions worth tens of millions of dollars.
I looked at the clock on the wall. It was 8:45 PM. My shift ended at 9:30 PM.
May you like
If I went, I would be crossing a line. I was a waitress; he was the heir to a tech fortune. But as I remembered the look of pure, helpless terror in Ethan’s eyes when his father spoke to him, I knew I couldn't ignore it.
I folded the note, tucked it back into my pocket, and went back to work.
