"Thank you. My attorney will contact the relevant department."
Then I left.
Teresa followed.
When we reached the corridor, she exhaled.
"Well."
I looked toward her.
She smiled faintly.
"That was awful."
I laughed weakly.
Then began crying again.
She pulled me into a hug.
And for the second time in my life, I walked out of a workplace not knowing whether I'd be allowed to return because I'd refused to pretend that a serious problem wasn't there.
The video appeared online that evening.
A customer seated near the private dining room's partially open entrance had recorded the exchange after hearing Whitmore raise his voice.
The footage wasn't complete.
It began with the millionaire laughing and holding the envelope.
It showed him throw the menu.
Captured his four-hundred-thousand-dollar wager.
Then showed me turning toward Mr. Lam and speaking Cantonese.
The camera didn't capture every word clearly because of background noise.
But it showed the investor's reaction.
The sudden silence.
His abrupt rise from the chair.
And Whitmore's expression changing when the transaction was stopped.
Someone posted it with a caption describing a millionaire's humiliating bet against a Black waitress.
Within hours, people began sharing the video.
Some praised my fluency.
Others criticized Whitmore.
Several Cantonese-speaking viewers translated my warning and began asking what happened to the forty million dollars.
By midnight, the clip had reached local news sites.
By the following morning, national commentators were discussing it.
The coverage frightened me.
I hadn't intended to become famous.
I hadn't wanted my face attached to an unresolved financial dispute.
I wanted the correct people to examine a document before a potentially improper transfer occurred.
Instead, my photograph appeared beside headlines about a millionaire being exposed by a waitress.
My phone filled with messages.
Former classmates.
Coworkers.
Relatives.
People I hadn't heard from in years.
Some were supportive.
Others asked whether I really spoke Cantonese.
One person I barely knew requested money, apparently believing Whitmore had already paid the wager.
I stared at that message for a long time.
Then turned off my notifications.
The attention didn't make me feel powerful.
It made me feel exposed.
I knew how much information people could find once they decided to search for a stranger.
My professional history.
My address.
My mother's neighborhood.
My brother's social media accounts.
I worried about all of it.
Rachel contacted me that morning and recommended practical steps to protect my privacy and preserve threatening communications.
I followed her advice.
Then I called my mother.
She answered immediately.
"Naomi."
Her voice was tense.
"Mom."
"Are you safe?"
I closed my eyes.