Chapter 4The Wrong Woman to Hustle

The manager’s office smelled of stale coffee and a faint, metallic scent of a bad temper. Gary Benson sat behind his desk, indicating a small, uncomfortable stool opposite him.

“Sit.”

I didn’t. I stood, facing him across the desk.

“The footage?”

He took his time, slowly picking up a mug, blowing on the surface, and taking a deliberate sip.

“Relax, kid. This is Aura on the Ascent. Our security is state-of-the-art. No one’s running away from this.”

He clicked a few times on his computer, pulled up a video window, and spun the monitor toward me.

“See for yourself.”

The screen showed the host stand’s camera angle. I watched the man, Mitch Hawthorne, walk up to the counter. He spoke to the server, and then, exactly as described, he raised his hand and pointed in the vague direction of my table.

The footage stopped there.

Gary Benson leaned back in his chair, a smug, triumphant look on his face. “Well? There it is. He points right at you and tells our server, ‘That’s my friend, put it on her tab.’ Now, what do you have to say?”

I stared at the frozen image, my mind racing.

The footage was deliberately misleading.

First, there was no sound. What they actually said was entirely his word against mine.

Second, the angle was too limited. It showed the pointing, but not the server’s facial expression or any prior exchange.

Third, why only this clip? Where was the full, uncut footage from the moment they walked in until they left?

“I want to see the complete, uncut video log,” I said. “From the moment they entered until they left, from all available angles. Especially any that might have ambient audio.”

His victorious smile flickered, then settled back into place.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, ma’am. Our dining room cameras are silent to protect guest privacy. As for the full log, that involves other patrons. We can’t just hand it over.”

It was the perfect, airtight excuse.

I understood then. They were in this together. Gary Benson was never interested in resolving a mistake; he intended to pin this bill on me from the start.

Seeing my silence, he must have assumed I was defeated. He stood and placed a patronizing hand on my shoulder.

“Listen to me, little girl. In business, reputation matters. A thousand bucks isn’t much. Chalk it up to a lesson learned. You take the loss, and you leave. But if you keep pushing this, it’s going to get very ugly, and trust me, you don’t want that.” His voice was laced with an undeniable threat.

I jerked his hand away and took a step back.

“I told you. It’s not my money. I won’t pay a cent.”

His last thread of patience snapped. The false professionalism evaporated, replaced by something dark and ugly.

“You’re asking for it, huh? Fine. We’ll see how long you can hold out!” He grabbed the desk intercom and barked a command: “Tony, Mike, get her back out to her table! And keep her there! If she tries to bolt, I don’t care what you have to do!”