Chapter 3The Wrong Woman to Hustle

“I am not skipping out. I will not pay a single cent for what I didn’t consume,” I said, locking eyes with Gary Benson.

“Proof?” I countered. “Where is your proof that we were a party?”

He was momentarily taken aback, but quickly recovered, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked down at me with disdain.

“Proof? Our server heard Mr. Hawthorne say it with his own ears. Besides, you came in around the same time and sat this close to them. You expect us to believe you didn’t know them?”

The sheer audacity of the logic made me speechless for a moment.

“So, because my table was adjacent, I’m financially liable for strangers? Is this restaurant’s seating chart based on ‘Friendship Affinity’?” My voice was dripping with sarcasm.

Gary Benson’s mask of pseudo-professionalism finally shattered.

“Ma’am, I will tell you one last time. You are settling this bill tonight. Otherwise, we will be forced to follow protocol.”

“And what is your protocol?”

“We have the right to escort you to the security office until you decide to be reasonable and pay up.” He glanced pointedly toward the main doors.

Two large security guards in black uniforms immediately detached themselves from the entrance and took up menacing positions flanking my table.

The surrounding diners began whispering.

“Look how ordinary she’s dressed. Probably trying to scam them.”

“Right? Who comes to a place like this and doesn’t know their party?”

“Trying to fake it till you make it, I guess. Never works at Aura.”

The comments felt like pinpricks. In my thirty years, I had never faced such blatant public humiliation. My hands, hidden beneath the table, were clenched into white-knuckled fists.

I took a slow, deep breath, forcing myself to calm down.

Arguing was useless. They had already decided I was a fraud.

“I want to see the security footage,” I stated.

Gary Benson scoffed as if I’d suggested something hilarious. “Fine. But I’ll warn you, if that footage confirms you were part of the group, settling the bill will be the least of your problems.”

“And if the footage proves we were not together?” I pressed.

“Then the meal is on me, and I will apologize to you in front of every guest here,” he said with absolute certainty, clearly believing he had me trapped.

“Deal.” I stood up. “Let’s go.”

Gary Benson led the way, me following under the gaze of the entire dining room, with the two security guards trailing behind like escorts for a criminal.

A wave of dizziness washed over me, not from fear, but from the raw heat of my fury. This anniversary, meant to be warm and romantic, had been completely poisoned by this man’s corruption.