Gerald blinked.
“That’s it?”
“No.”
She picked up her bag.
“That’s not all.”
She opened the office door.
Then looked back.
“They’ve been eating people like me alive for years down here too.”
Gerald said nothing.
Naomi stepped into the hallway.
Marcus was waiting beside the kitchen door.
He took one look at her face.
“How bad?”
“Complicated.”
“That means bad.”
“Maybe.”
“Did he fire you?”
“No.”
“Did you quit?”
“No.”
Marcus stared.
“Did you take the corporate job?”
“Not yet.”
His eyes widened.
“Not yet?”
Naomi walked toward the service station.
Marcus followed.
“You’re actually considering it?”
“Yes.”
“You said last night it sounded like a setup.”
“It does.”
“So?”
She picked up a tray.
“So maybe every opportunity that scares you looks like a setup from where we’ve spent our lives standing.”
Marcus stopped.
Naomi kept walking.
The entire shift felt strange.
Everyone knew something.
Nobody knew enough.
Sarah asked whether Naomi was “moving upstairs.”
Another waiter jokingly called her “executive.”
The chef asked if she would remember them when she had an expense account.
Naomi smiled when she could.
Ignored what she couldn’t.
At 6:42 p.m., Darius arrived.
Table 17.
Same suit.
Same stillness.
But Naomi noticed something she had never seen before.
He looked nervous.
Not obviously.
Darius Cole probably had not looked obviously nervous since childhood.
But she knew his face now.
The extra stillness.
The slight tension in his jaw.
The way he placed his phone face down instead of leaving it beside his glass.
She approached.
“Water?”
“No ice.”
“I remember.”
She poured.
Neither mentioned headquarters.
Finally Darius asked:
“How much time do I have left?”
Naomi checked the clock.
“About three hours.”
He nodded.
“Have you decided?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe isn’t a decision.”
“It is while I’m holding your water pitcher.”
Something moved at the corner of his mouth.
Then he became serious.
“What do you need to know?”
Naomi set the pitcher down.
“Will I actually have authority?”
“Yes.”
“Or will I be the waitress you bring into meetings so everybody can feel progressive?”
His expression changed.
“No.”
“Will I be allowed to tell you you’re wrong in front of other executives?”
“Yes.”
“What if they hate me?”
“They probably will.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“It’s honest.”
She nodded.
“What if you hate me?”
Darius paused.
That answer took longer.
“If you’re doing the job honestly, that shouldn’t matter.”
“Shouldn’t.”
“No.”
He understood the difference.
Naomi continued.
“I’m not taking the job if I’m your personal messenger.”
“You won’t be.”
“I’m not taking it if everybody knows I only have power when you’re standing behind me.”
Darius leaned back.
“What would you need?”
“Independent reporting.”
He watched her.
“To who?”
“A committee.”
“HR.”
“Board.”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re the billionaire.”
“Figure it out.”
For the first time, Darius smiled.
Not the almost-smile.
A real one.
Small.
Tired.
But real.
“You’ve been offered the job for less than a day and you’re already redesigning it.”
“You said you wanted honesty.”
“I did.”
“And one more thing.”
“What?”
“If Gerald gets fired because I accept, I’m saying no.”
Darius’s face became unreadable.
“Why?”
“Because then every employee will believe exactly what they already believe about you.”
“That you punish people who make you uncomfortable.”
“He reported you.”
“He reported something he believed was a problem.”
“Was he wrong?”
Naomi thought about it.
“He was scared.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
Darius said nothing.
She picked up the pitcher.
“At eleven tonight, I’ll call.”
Then she walked away.
At 10:53, Naomi stood outside her apartment with her phone in her hand.
Seven minutes.
She had spent the bus ride calculating.
Rent.
Electricity.
Transportation.
Health insurance she barely had.
The debt on a credit card she avoided looking at.
Ninety thousand dollars would not make her rich.
But compared with twenty-two thousand from three jobs, it felt almost impossible.
That frightened her.
She didn’t want money to make the decision.
If she accepted only because of the salary, then every difficult day afterward would feel like something she had sold herself into.
So she asked another question.
If the salary were forty thousand, would I still want to try?
The answer surprised her.
Yes.
At 10:58, she called.
Darius answered on the first ring.
“You waited.”
“You gave me twenty-four hours.”
“I did.”
“I have conditions.”
“I assumed you would.”
“I want the reporting structure in writing.”
“It will be.”
“I want access to anonymous employee complaints without managers filtering them first.”
“Reasonable.”
“I want to visit locations without them preparing for me.”
“Yes.”
“I want frontline workers on the culture committee.”
“How many?”
“Half.”
Silence.
“Half?”
“You said the system doesn’t listen to them.”
“Then let them speak.”
Another pause.
“Done.”
“And I want training.”
“Business.”
“Finance.”
“Whatever I don’t know.”
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