From Bully To Beloved

She looks around as if she’s just realized I left our guests alone. “I told you I got it. You didn’t have to follow me.”

“I also needed a moment.”

We share an eye roll and a smirk before I grab the faux prime rib, and she grabs the potatoes and salad.

“You want me to toss the salad?” I joke.

She grins. “It’s tossed.”

“All right. Ready for war, baby?” I growl. All smiles once more, we head back to our guests. I step through the doorway first and notice Mr. Osborn and Charlotte with their heads bent, talking to each other in hushed voices.

Once they notice us, however, they pull away and smile a bit too brightly.

“Oh, howlovely,” Charlotte coos when I place the platter in the middle of the table. “Prime rib is my absolute favorite. This all looks wonderful. Tell me, Sera, how did you learn to cook?”

“I’ve been at The Diner for many years and have trained in the position,” she explains when we sit back down. “I just prefer waitressing.”

Charlotte’s penciled-in eyebrows shoot up. “Wow, that’s surprising.”

“Why’s that?”

There’s a certain tightness in Sera’s tone that I recognize. She’s using her, “I’m being as polite as I can possibly be right now” voice. Charlotte better watch what she says next.

“I just don’t see why anyone would want to stick with waitressing,” she says off-handedly as I serve her a slice of faux meat. “You know, if you work hard enough, I’m sure you’ll be able to move up the ladder.”

That’s presumptuous of her. Who says that? Why does she automatically think Sera doesn’t work hard? I’m almost surprised she’s not physically turning up her nose, but she seems to have a better poker face than her husband.

I glance at Sera, and her jaw is clenched. I serve her food, leaning in close to whisper to her, “Easy, babe.”

She takes a slow breath, forcing another smile. “Diners don’t really have ladders,” she says. “More like, step stools.”

I laugh and, to my surprise, Mr. Osborn chuckles. “You have a clever wife, Colton,” he says, holding his plate out for his food. “A step stool. That’s a good one.”

The tension around the table lightens, and even Charlotte gives a small chuckle. I take a bite of my food and can’t help but moan. It’s amazing. Sera is a good cook. The prime rib melts in my mouth and the roasted potatoes are the perfect complement.

“Spectacular, Sera,” Mr. Osborn says. “This is the best prime rib I’ve ever had.”

“It is delicious,” Charlotte says. “I wouldn’t go with best, but definitely high on the list.”

What the hell is wrong with this woman? She can’t help but take jabs at Sera every time she opens her mouth.

“It’s my favorite recipe,” Sera attempts. “But it’s not real prime rib. It’s made of veggies only. You know, as a healthier alternative?”

“Oh,” Charlotte says.

“Oh?” Mr. Osborn frowns. “Well, well. That’s not real meat? Not what I expected. Or what I’m used to.”

“Definitelynotwhat we are used to.” Charlotte shakes her head, nibbling off her fork, and swallowing cautiously. “But we are always open to…experiments. Isn’t that so, Andrew?”

The smile is frozen on Sera’s face. She does her best to not clench her jaw. Under the table, I can feel her foot bouncing, and I reach out to place my hand on her knee to stop it. She has beautiful knees. I feel her hand cover mine, squeezing hard. She doesn’t need to speak for me to understand the gesture.

She’s nearing the end of her patience.

And I am too.

“There’s an upscale restaurant not too far from the dealership that I’ve invested in,” Mr. Osborn says. “They owe me a favor. If you’d like, Sera, I can put in a good word for you.”

She lowers her fork. “A good word? What for?”

“I thought if there’s no room for advancement where you currently work, I’d be more than happy to assist you in finding something more…suitable.”Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

Flames are practically sprouting from Sera’s eyes. Seriously, if looks could kill, the Osborns would be burnt to a crisp by now.

“Thank you, Mr. Osborn, but I’m very happy where I am.” Gone is the forced politeness, and honestly, I’m done with it myself. I invited this couple into our home, and all they’ve done is throw thinly veiled insults at my wife.

“I don’t see how you can be,” Charlotte says. “A diner is hardly a five-star restaurant.”

This time I open my mouth. I’m fucking done with this. “I’m sorry, do you have a problem with my wife’s profession?” I ask in a calm, steady tone.

All three heads swivel to face me. Sera’s hand finds mine under the table.

Charlotte’s eyes widen at my question. “Excuse me?”

“I always like to address matters openly, so there’s no room for misunderstanding. That’s how I do business, and that’s how I live my life. Having said that, allow me to speak frankly.” Both look at me with big eyes, so I continue. “When Sera first mentioned what she did for a living,” I say, leaning back against my chair, regarding them, “you turned your nose up at it, and now you’re insulting where she works.”

“Oh!” Charlotte says, pale cheeks suddenly flushed with embarrassment. “I meant nothing by that, dear.”

Mr. Osborn reaches over and places his hand on her boney one. “What my wife and I are trying to say is, if you ever wanted something a little more…”

“More what?” Sera asks, taking a delicate bite of potatoes, likely to keep from snapping at the couple. But the expression on her face gives her away, at least to me.

They don’t seem to know how to talk their way out of this. I have a feeling that they don’t normally interact with people who don’t hang on their every word. Knowing what I know about NYC politics, I’m sure they’re used to people asking for their opinion and desperate for their approval. Sera and I don’t fall into that category.

“Stable,” Mr. Osborn finishes. “Something a little more stable.”

“How is a five-star restaurant more stable than a diner that’s been around for thirty years?” Sera asks, tilting her head.

There’s no immediate answer. “Let’s change the subject,” Charlotte declares, picking up her wineglass. “Aside from working, what else do you do, Sera?”

Sera and I share a glance at the abrupt and desperate change of subject. I think it’s hilarious that she thinks she can insult Sera multiple times, and we’ll jump back into a conversation like it didn’t happen.

It’s becoming increasingly obvious the Osborns are not people I wish to be associated with privately or professionally. “I think my wife has a valid question,” I reiterate, not letting Charlotte get away with it. “I’m incredibly curious as to what your answer is.”

The tension that had started to dissipate is back with a vengeance, thicker than ever.

Sera is clearly trying to hold back a grin, not meeting my eye. Our hands are still clasped tightly under the table, her thumb brushing over my knuckle. She gives Charlotte the politest “I’m waiting” look I’ve ever seen. The older woman shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

It takes her a few long awkward moments to gather her thoughts. “I don’t imagine a diner gets very many elite patrons,” she says, setting her wine on the table and picking up her fork again. Her back is stiff and she’s avoiding eye contact.

“And?” I ask, arching an eyebrow in question.

“My wife wants the subject changed,” Mr. Osborn speaks up. “She’s already explained herself. Let’s move on.”

No, no. They’re not getting away that easy.

“Andmywife works extremely hard and has been with the same employer her entire adult life. She’s dependable and has autonomy and authority where she works, which is more than most people our age have. She also enjoys it. Yet because she’s working at a diner and not some well-known fancy, expensive restaurant, her accomplishments have been criticized. Which I do not appreciate.”

I keep my tone cool, leaning back in my seat. I lift our joined hands, so they rest on the table, showing the Osborns we are a united front. Charlotte doesn’t respond and starts eating again as if I haven’t said anything.

Now Mr. Osborn is glaring at me. “Son, you really want to discuss this?”

“I didn’t hear a proper explanation,” I continue. “What does it matter what kind of patrons Sera serves? I’m confused. I don’t see how it’s relevant.”

“Well, I imagine so, given your circumstances,” Mr. Osborn says in an icy tone.

Hold up. What did he just say to me?

I sit straighter, fixating the older man with a deep frown. “My circumstances? And what circumstances are those exactly?”

“You weren’t born into the same world we were born into,” Mr. Osborn says matter-of-factly. “Let’s face it. We simply have different views.”

“Yes. True. That still doesn’t answer my question.”

Where once his demeanor was relaxed and almost uninterested, now it’s tense and cold. Just like his wife. Fuck NYC politics. I was fully intending to play nice, but if this is how these dickheads are going to act, I’ll do what I need to without their help.

“It all boils down to breeding and family,” Mr. Osborn says. “My wife and I were both raised in the city with families who have been connected with the business side of the city stretching back many years. We know the people who make the city run. Wearethe people who make the city run. In this business, it’s all about who you know. Knowing the right people gets you where you want to go.”

I’ve never heard someone speak so much without really saying anything. It’s the same bullshit you hear over and over among the “so-called” elite. “Right,” I say slowly. “Correct me if I’m wrong, what you’re trying to say is that because we’re new money, we’re not as good as you two, who come from old money?”

Silence.

Charlotte carefully sets her fork on her clean plate and places her napkin on the table. “Andrew, dear, I think I’m ready to go home,” she says, looking at her husband and ignoring me and Sera completely.

“I think that’d be best,” Sera says, a bite to her tone.

Charlotte’s gaze snaps to hers, any trace of politeness long gone. Sera meets her eyes without backing down. Her jaw is clenched so tight I’m afraid she’s biting through her tongue. I take it the only reason she hasn’t completely gone off on these two is because of what this dinner is supposed to mean to me. I appreciate it, but now, the point is moot.

Mr. Osborn considers his wife before his gaze slides back to meet mine. “Well,” he says, “I am sorry to say that we cannot stay to finish the meal. Thank you for having us, but we must leave.”

“As my wife said, I think that would be best.”

They don’t need much more convincing to leave. They stand up and I follow to personally show them the door. Charlotte hurries out before her husband, and Mr. Osborn lingers just enough to wish me luck with a firm handshake.

“I look forward to seeing the dealership,” he says in short, clipped tones.

Nodding, I say, “I think our partnership ends here, Mr. Osborn.”

Mr. Osborn’s eyes flare. He steps into the hall, his eyes never leaving mine. “Don’t forget, Ashton,” he says, his voice with a threatening undertone, “I invested in your dealership. I’m allowed to see what my investment is going toward.”

“Don’t worry. Your money will be returned to you first thing tomorrow.”

He opens his mouth to respond, and I don’t give him a chance to speak. I slam the door in his face, locking it with a resoundingclick.

If he lawyers up, I’m fucked.