Belinda’s eyes dropped at once to the prosthetic leg.
Her lips tightened.
“Is that noise necessary?” she asked, loud enough for nearby diners to hear. “You’re ruining the ambiance.”
A few heads turned.
Alex felt heat climb her neck, but her voice remained smooth. “I’m sorry if it’s distracting. Can I start you with a glass of wine?”
Belinda gave a short, humorless laugh. “You can start by wiping this table properly. It’s sticky.”
Alex wiped it again.
Belinda ordered wine, then sent it back. Ordered the filet, then complained it was too cold. Sent it back again because it was overdone. Criticized the bread, the lighting, the speed of service, the angle of the water glass. **Each complaint landed with surgical precision, never random, always designed to humiliate.**
Alex endured all of it.
For Eden.
For rent.
For tomorrow.
By the third trip to Table Four, the socket of her prosthetic felt like it was filled with broken glass. Still, she moved as fast as she could, though her balance had started to shift from the pain.
Belinda watched her return with the new plate and smiled with visible disdain.
“Do you not know how to move any faster?” she asked, tilting her head. “Or is this as fast as you go?”
The cruelty in it was almost casual, which made it worse.
Alex swallowed so hard it hurt. “Is there anything else you need?”
“Yes,” Belinda said. “A server who doesn’t make my dinner feel like a hospital waiting room.”
Alex walked away before the woman could see the tremor in her jaw.
Behind the service wall, Jenna hissed, “I swear to God, say the word and I’ll throw her out myself.”
Alex shook her head. “No scene.”
“She’s disgusting.”
Alex looked down at her order pad until her vision steadied. “I know.”
When dessert and the check were finally delivered, Alex’s hands were trembling. Belinda signed the receipt without looking at her, then slid the folder across the table.
“Don’t expect anything, girl.”
Alex opened it.
No tip.
Below the total, in elegant handwriting so deliberate it seemed rehearsed, were the words:
**Maybe if you weren’t making those noises, you’d be worth a tip. You’re an eyesore.**
For one awful second, the restaurant disappeared.
There was only the note, the burn behind her eyes, and that old familiar shame—the kind she had spent years fighting, the kind that whispered she was too broken, too visible, too inconvenient for the world to accept gently.
She stepped behind the service wall, gripping the folder so tightly it bent.
Jenna saw her face and went still. “What did she do?”
Alex handed her the receipt.
Jenna read it and swore under her breath. “I’m going to her table.”