Quickly, carefully, she scraped leftovers from expensive plates—salmon barely touched, bread left behind, spoonfuls of risotto—slipping them into plastic bags hidden in a bucket.
A waiter shoved her aside.
“Move,” he muttered. “If the manager sees you again, you’re done.”
Ryan waited for her to react. He remembered her strength, her pride.
But she didn’t argue.
She lowered her head, whispered an apology, and kept working.
Something inside him cracked.
He ended the meeting without explanation, ignoring the confusion around him, and stood up. By the time he reached the corner, the manager had already grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the kitchen.
Ryan stopped.
Walking in wearing a suit worth more than her monthly income would only humiliate her.
So instead, he followed.
That night, he drove himself—something he hadn’t done in years. He kept his distance as she left the restaurant, walked to a worn-down bus stop, and boarded a bus heading toward the outskirts of the city.
The roads grew rougher. Streetlights disappeared. The neighborhoods became quieter, poorer.
She got off near the top of a hill lined with unfinished houses.
Ryan parked and continued on foot.