The Takeout Takedown

"Ah! Mr. Vance! What a coincidence!"

It was Edgar Vance, manager of the hotel's Food and Beverage Department.

Mike turned to his colleagues, puffing himself up. "See that? That's one of the hotel's top executives! We go way back—tight as brothers! With just a word from me, getting fifty percent off tonight's bill is nothing!"

A chorus of admiration rippled through the group as his coworkers praised his connections and clout.

Basked in their flattery, Mike practically floated, completely missing the way Edgar looked at him—as if he were unhinged.

Edgar was just about to lose his temper when his gaze swept over to me.

I lifted a hand slightly, signaling stay calm, then pointed at Mike… and tapped my temple.

A seasoned professional, Edgar understood instantly.

He swallowed whatever reprimand he'd been about to deliver and replaced it with a polished, professional smile. "Since you insist, we'll make sure everyone enjoys themselves tonight."

Hearing that, Mike grew even more smug, his nose practically pointing at the ceiling.

"Did you hear that? That's influence! That's status!"

He shot me a provocative glance. "Jennifer, see the gap between us? Someone like you will spend your whole life eating other people's leftovers!"

Mike truly believed he'd secured a golden pass. The moment he stepped into the private room, he completely let himself go.

"Waiter! Bring out everything expensive on the menu—Australian lobster, foie gras, bouillabaisse, black truffles—serve them all!

"As for drinks? Beer? Are you kidding? We've got female colleagues here tonight. Open two bottles of '82 Lafite! And that Macallan M Black Decanter—bring us two, just to rinse our mouths!"

The server hesitated, instinctively glancing toward me, who was standing quietly by the door.

Leaning against the frame, I gave a blank nod.

If he dared to order, we would dare to serve it. After all, I wouldn't be the one paying.

Round after round of drinks, course after course of dishes. Mike's face flushed deep red as he drank himself into a haze. His tie hung crooked, one foot planted on a chair as he grandly held court.

"I'm telling you—what matters in life is vision! Take Jennifer, for example. Tsk, tsk—textbook low-class mindset! For a few scraps of meat, she threw away all dignity! Unlike how my mother raised me! When a man spends money, he does it with style!"

A female colleague beside him chimed in flatteringly, "Exactly, Mike! How could a woman like that ever be worthy of you? She's not even fit to carry your shoes!"

Mike burst into laughter. "Carry my shoes? She'd have to get in line first!

"If it weren't for the fact that she's somewhat good-looking, I might've had a little fun. Who knew she was a brainless pauper? Good thing I got out fast—otherwise, once someone like that sticks to you, you can't shake her off!"

Standing in the shadows, I listened as they twisted the story with every venomous word they could muster.

In their telling, I'd become a desperate, scheming woman willing to do anything to marry into wealth—even stalking an ex.

My fists clenched. But I held back. The higher they lifted him now, the harder he would fall later.

At last, it was time to settle the bill.

A server walked in, holding a long receipt, and said with a polite smile, "Sir, your total comes to 188,800 dollars."

The private room fell silent.

The once-rowdy crowd now looked like ducks with their throats clamped shut.

Half of Mike's drunkenness evaporated on the spot. His eyes bulged, as if they might pop right out of their sockets.