"One million dollars."
The Saudi billionaire slammed his palm against the polished mahogany table, making the crystal glasses tremble. His eyes narrowed as he looked up at the young Black waitress standing beside his chair, dressed in a beautiful burgundy abaya embroidered with intricate gold flowers.
"One million dollars if you can speak my language."
The private dining room went silent.
Beyond the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows, Manhattan glittered beneath the night sky. Thousands of lights shimmered across the towers of Midtown, while expensive cars moved through the streets thirty floors below. Inside the restaurant, the air carried the scent of saffron rice, slow-roasted lamb, cardamom coffee, and the delicate perfume of fresh flowers arranged along the enormous dining table.
But nobody was thinking about dinner anymore.
The billionaire's American business partner lowered his wineglass. Two senior executives standing near the windows exchanged nervous looks, while the restaurant manager stopped halfway through the doorway with a silver tray balanced against her waist.
The waitress remained perfectly still.
She was twenty-eight years old, with deep-brown skin, expressive dark eyes, and a composed face that revealed almost nothing of the fear building inside her. A burgundy shayla framed her features, its edges decorated with fine gold embroidery that matched her flowing traditional Arabian-style uniform.
Her name was Amara Bennett.
And she had been waiting eleven months for this opportunity.
The billionaire leaned backward in his chair. At fifty-eight, Faisal Al-Rashid controlled a private investment group with interests in shipping, technology, energy, and commercial property across three continents. His pristine white thobe was perfectly pressed, and a red-and-white checkered ghutra rested over his head beneath a black agal.
He studied Amara with an amused expression.
"Come on," he said. "You heard me."
The American executive beside him laughed uncomfortably.
"Your Excellency, she's only here to serve dinner."
Faisal turned toward him.
"Then perhaps she should remember that."
Amara lowered her eyes briefly.
She had served businessmen like him for nearly a year. Men who believed expensive clothing and a large bank account entitled them to comment on women's bodies, intelligence, accents, and backgrounds. Most left generous tips after behaving badly, apparently convinced that money erased humiliation.
Normally, she said nothing.
She needed the job.
Her younger brother's medical bills hadn't disappeared, the landlord still expected rent, and the student loans from her graduate studies continued accumulating interest whether or not she earned enough to pay them.
Tonight was different.
On the table, directly beside the billionaire's gold-trimmed coffee cup, lay a thick leather-bound acquisition agreement.