Preston walked out of the restaurant without looking back. Cynthia sat for a moment, the ruin of her life echoing in the whispers of the room, then grabbed her purse and ran out, shielding her face from the diners. Casey stood there, water dripping from her apron onto her shoes.
The room remained quiet for 1 more second. Then, slowly, the senator’s wife at Table 7 began to clap. Then the CEO. Then the tourists in the corner. Within 10 seconds, the entire restaurant rose into a standing ovation for the soaking wet waitress.
Casey did not smile. She only felt tired. She looked at the check Preston had left on the table. It was for $10,000.
The adrenaline crash hit about 1 hour later, in the locker room as she changed out of her wet uniform. Her hands were shaking now. The reality of what she had done settled in: she had insulted a billionaire’s wife, read private legal documents, and set a divorce into motion. The check lay on the bench beside her cheap canvas tote bag. It would pay for 3 months of her mother’s dialysis. It was a lifeline, and it also felt like blood money.
“Casey.”
She jumped. Claude stood in the doorway of the locker room. He did not look angry anymore. He looked terrified. “There is a car outside for you,” he said, wringing his hands.
“A car?” Casey frowned. “I take the subway.”
“It’s a Bentley,” Claude whispered. “The driver says he is waiting for the scholar. That is you.”
Casey’s stomach dropped. Preston Hightower had not merely left; he had waited, or sent someone back. She grabbed her bag, shoved the check into her pocket, and went out through the back alley exit. A sleek black Bentley idled beside a dumpster that smelled of old seafood. The back window rolled down. Preston Hightower sat inside, tie changed, reading a file on a tablet.
“Get in, Casey,” he said without looking up.
“I’m going home, Mr. Hightower,” Casey said, clutching her bag. “I have class in the morning.”
“Columbia University,” Preston said, reading from the tablet. “PhD candidate, specializing in international contract law. 4.0 GPA. Undergraduate degree from Georgetown on a full academic scholarship. Fluent in French, German, Italian, and Latin. Currently writing a dissertation on linguistic ambiguity in postwar reparation agreements.” He looked up, streetlights reflecting in his eyes. “You’re overqualified to serve soup, Casey.”
“The soup pays the rent,” she shot back, “and the dialysis bills.”
Preston paused and tapped the screen. “Yes. Mary Miller. Stage 4 renal failure. Treatment costs are roughly $4,000 a month out of pocket because her insurance deemed it pre-existing. That’s a heavy load for a waitress.”
Casey stepped back, anger flaring. “You investigated me in 1 hour.”
“I have resources,” he said, “and I don’t like mysteries. You are a mystery.” He opened the car door from the inside. “Get in. I’m not going to hit on you. I’m not going to propose to you. I have a business proposition. 5 minutes. If you say no, the driver will take you home to Queens.”
Casey hesitated, thinking of her mother in the dialysis chair, skin gray and papery, and of the stack of final-notice bills on her kitchen table. Then she got in. The interior smelled of leather and peppermint, quiet and sealed off from New York’s noise.
“What do you want?” she asked.
Preston faced her. “My wife—soon to be ex-wife—was right about 1 thing. I am surrounded by idiots. Highly paid, well-educated idiots.” He handed her a thick folder stamped with the logo of High Tower Holdings. “I am in the middle of a merger with a German manufacturing firm. It’s a $4,000,000,000 deal. My legal team—20 lawyers from the best firm in the city—have been reviewing the contracts for 2 weeks. They say it’s clean. They say it’s ready to sign tomorrow.”
Casey looked down at the folder.
“And my gut says they’re missing something,” Preston continued. “But I can’t find it. I don’t read German legalese.”
“You think I do?”
He leaned forward. “You read a divorce contract upside down in dim lighting and found a loophole in 10 seconds. I want you to look at this merger tonight.”
Casey laughed, dry and humorless. “Mr. Hightower, I am a graduate student. I am not a corporate lawyer. If I give you legal advice, I could be disbarred before I even take the bar.”
“I’m not asking for legal advice,” Preston said. “I’m asking for a translation, a linguistic analysis. I want to know if the words say what my lawyers think they say.”
“And if I refuse?”
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