The dining room was full: polished silverware, soft jazz, and the gentle hum of business and anniversaries. At table twelve sat Harper King , the kind of woman who walked in as if she owned the place. Designer blazer, diamond watch, a phone permanently in her hand, broadcasting her life to hundreds of thousands of followers.
I already knew her reputation. “That blogger who makes the staff cry,” one of the cooks had muttered. But we needed every single reservation, so management treated her like royalty.
“Water with lemon. Extra ice. Not that cloudy stuff from the tap,” she said without looking at me. “Yes, of course,” I replied, keeping my voice neutral.
For a week, I had been living this double life. By day, I was the quiet owner in my upstairs office, reviewing anonymous emails accusing “certain clients” of harassment, threats, and humiliation. By night, I wore the plain black uniform and name tag, pretending to be the lowest-ranking person in the hierarchy.
I’d already seen three waiters quit in a month. One walked off sobbing in the alley after a double shift. When I asked my floor manager about it, he just shrugged. “Service industry. They’re soft. Guests come first.”
But the emails contained details no random troll could possibly know: dates, table numbers, snippets of dialogue almost word for word. Someone was deliberately breaking into my staff.
So I walked into my own apartment as “Lena,” and my employees had no idea who I really was.
Harper barely waited for her drink before finding something wrong. Too much ice. Not enough lemon. The bread wasn’t warm enough. My “slouched” posture. Every word was loud, rehearsed, as if the entire restaurant were her stage.
