“Didn’t do anything wrong?” Jordan repeated, his voice no longer soft. “You mocked me behind my back because I looked like I didn’t belong here. Then you spoke to a paying customer like he was dirt. This isn’t a gossip lounge or a private club. It’s a diner. My diner.”
The two women froze. Denise opened her mouth to respond, but the words didn’t come.
“My name is Jordan Ellis,” he said, pulling back his hood and taking off the knit cap. “I own this place.”
Silence fell like a hammer across the diner. A few nearby customers turned to watch. The cook in the kitchen peeked through the window.
“No way,” whispered the younger woman.
“Yes, way,” Jordan replied coldly. “I opened this diner with my bare hands. My mother used to bake pies here. We built this place to serve everyone. Construction workers. Seniors. Moms with kids. Struggling folks trying to make it to payday. You don’t get to decide who deserves kindness.”
Denise’s face had gone pale. The younger one dropped her phone.
“Let me explain—” Denise began.
“No,” Jordan interrupted. “I’ve heard enough. And so have the cameras.”
He looked over to the corner of the ceiling, where a discreet surveillance camera sat. “Those microphones? Yeah, they work. Every word you said is recorded. And it’s not the first time.”
