Mr. Gozon’s expression darkened. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Mia said nothing. She slowly untied the apron from her waist—no anger, no rush—and laid it gently over the broken plate.
A ripple of whispers spread across the dining room.
“What is this?” Gozon hissed. “Have you lost your mind?”
Mia met his eyes. For the first time since stepping into Le Ciel, she did not bow. She did not flinch.
Her voice trembled—but it was steady.
“You’re fired.”
The room erupted.
Gozon laughed, loud and cruel. “Me? Fired? Who do you think you are—”
A single clap cut through the noise.
Slow. Deliberate.
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