The girl’s voice was soft, trembling — yet it cut through the bustling noise of the upscale restaurant like a knife.
A man in a tailored navy suit, about to savor the first bite of his dry-aged ribeye, stopped mid-movement. His fork hovered in the air. Conversations around him faded into a dim blur as he slowly turned toward the source of the voice.
“Miss, you cannot be here. This is a private dining area…”
But before he could reach her, the man raised his hand slightly — a gesture so calm and firm that it stopped the maître d’ in his tracks.
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