Chapter 2The Wrong Woman to Hustle

I watched them disappear, feeling a vague sense of irritation, but nothing more. Maybe he’d just asked the server to take his call at his table.

Ten minutes later, Noah texted: In the lobby! Be right up!

My mood lifted instantly. I reached for my phone, ready to tell the kitchen to warm up my order.

A young server approached my table, a check presenter in hand. He placed it gently on the table.

“Ma’am, your total comes to $1,260.50.”

I was stunned.

I picked up the check and opened it. A long, dense list of items—Scotch, the pricey Cabernet, the Boston Lobster—everything the table next to me had consumed.

I looked up at the server. “Did you make a mistake? I only ordered two dishes.”

He maintained a professional, if distant, smile. “No mistake, ma’am.” He gestured to the now-busser-cleared table beside mine. “The gentlemen who just left, your friends? They told us the bill was being settled by you.”

Friends? I didn’t know them.

A spike of pure heat rushed through me, but I forced my voice to remain even. “I don’t know those men. Please get your manager.”

The smile dropped from his face, replaced by a look of stern professionalism. “Ma’am, please don’t joke. Mr. Hawthorne was very clear. He said you were a friend, and he was leaving the tab.”

“I’m telling you one more time: I don’t know them.” My voice was now cold. “Get your manager.”

The server looked flustered, clearly not equipped for a confrontation. He mumbled something into his earpiece.

Moments later, a man in a black suit with a “Floor Manager” badge—Gary Benson—approached. He was stout and impeccably groomed, with a tight, judgmental expression.

“Ma’am, I’m the manager. Gary Benson. What seems to be the trouble?”

I pushed the bill toward him. “This isn’t mine. I ordered less than a hundred dollars in food. This three-course bill belongs to the table that just left. Your server has mistakenly charged it to me.”

Gary Benson picked up the check, scanned it, then looked me up and down. A faint, contemptuous smile played on his lips.

“Ma’am, I just confirmed with the host stand. Mr. Hawthorne explicitly stated you would be settling up. Look, we’re all adults here. It’s a bit over a thousand dollars. No need to make a scene, is there?”

His tone was heavy with implication, suggesting I was a cheap opportunist trying to dine and dash.

“A scene?” I laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. “Strangers ate and drank a thousand dollars of food and told a restaurant I would pay for it. And you think I’m the one making a scene? Is this how Aura on the Ascent does business?”

His face hardened. “Ma’am, please watch your tone. We operate on good faith here. We have every reason to believe you were part of that party. Trying to skip out on the bill now won’t work.”

His voice was low, but several nearby tables heard the exchange. Heads snapped toward me, their expressions a mix of curiosity and thinly veiled scorn.

I felt the blood rush to my face. Not from shame, but from pure, incandescent rage.