“TWENTY-FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS! THAT'S WHAT I'LL PAY IF THIS WAITRESS CAN READ ONE PAGE OF JAPANESE!”
Walter Sterling slammed his palm onto the polished mahogany table, making the crystal whiskey glasses tremble.
Five wealthy businessmen burst into laughter.
The enormous windows behind them overlooked Manhattan at night, with the Empire State Building rising above thousands of illuminated offices. Inside the luxurious private Japanese dining suite, stacks of hundred-dollar bills stood beside black leather document folders, expensive watches, porcelain tea bowls, and a contract governing a two-hundred-million-dollar acquisition.
The money wasn't needed to complete the transaction. Sterling had arranged the display for a private investor presentation earlier that evening, an extravagant demonstration of the liquidity he liked reminding everyone he possessed. Now, surrounded by men who applauded nearly everything he said, he had decided to use part of it to humiliate a woman who was simply trying to finish her shift.
She stood to his left, wearing a navy-blue Japanese-inspired service blouse decorated with delicate white circular floral patterns. The garment had a black overlapping collar and loose three-quarter-length sleeves, while a wide black apron was tied securely over her long dark skirt.
Her thick black braids were gathered into an elegant bun.
A folded cleaning cloth rested in one hand. In the other, she held a small notebook used to record guests' requests and private dining instructions.
Her name was Imani Carter.
She was twenty-eight years old, a Black American woman with deep chocolate-brown skin, intelligent dark eyes, and an expression she had spent years learning to keep composed around difficult people.
She had worked at Kintsugi Sky for eleven months.
She had never been offered twenty-five thousand dollars for doing anything.
Until that night.
Sterling leaned forward, his silver-gray hair shining beneath the chandelier.
“Come on, sweetheart. One page.”
Imani looked down at the contract.
Then at the money.
“I wasn't asking for a wager, sir.”
He laughed.
“Of course you weren't. You were trying to make yourself sound educated.”
His son, Julian Sterling, stood behind the chair near the window. At thirty-five, Julian was handsome, impeccably dressed, and accustomed to watching his father use money to end arguments.
He smiled, but his gaze kept moving toward the documents.
The other men didn't notice.
Imani did.
Walter picked up a tightly banded stack of bills and threw it onto the table.
“Five thousand dollars.”
Another stack.
“Ten thousand.”
He added several more.
“Twenty-five thousand. All yours if you can accurately read the Japanese on the page I choose.”
A middle-aged investor laughed into his whiskey.
Another shook his head.
“Walter, you're terrible.”