He looked around the room, taking in the faces. The stunned customers. The employees frozen behind the counter. The cook leaning out of the kitchen doorway with wide eyes.
Then he looked back at Carl.
“I own this diner,” he said.
A sound escaped someone—maybe a laugh, maybe a gasp.
Carl’s face turned a shade I had never seen before. “That’s—no. That’s impossible. I—”
James’s tone stayed calm, but each word landed like a gavel. “Riverside Diner is part of Harrison Hospitality Group. My company.”
Carl swallowed hard. “Mr. Harrison, I—I didn’t recognize you.”
James’s eyes narrowed slightly. “No. You recognized exactly what you wanted to recognize.”
Silence.
James stepped forward, not aggressive, just certain.
“I come here sometimes,” he continued, voice steady. “Not because I need food. Because I need to see how my businesses treat people when they think no one important is watching.”
Carl’s hands began to shake. “I can explain—”
James lifted a hand. “You already did.”
He turned his gaze to me.
And suddenly I felt exposed, like the whole room was waiting for me to speak.
“You,” James said gently, “what’s your name?”
“Emily,” I whispered. My throat felt too tight.
