The silence around us deepened.
My mother blinked. “Handle what?”
I took the leather folder from Martin’s hand and opened it. Inside was the updated Mother’s Day seating map, ownership reports from the morning briefing, and a printed note the events coordinator had left about VIP tables. Not because I needed any of it. Because visual aids matter when certain people only understand power if it is formatted.
I met my mother’s eyes. “I’ll handle it.”
Cheryl shifted uncomfortably.
Vanessa gave a small laugh. “What exactly is happening?”
I closed the folder. “You made a public remark intended to humiliate a member of staff in front of guests.”
My mother drew herself up. “I made an observation.”
“No,” I said. “You tried to stage an embarrassment.”
Trevor, who had remained wisely silent until then, muttered, “Diane, maybe let’s just sit down.”
But my mother was already too committed to retreat gracefully. “Honestly, Olivia, don’t be dramatic. We’re the customers.”
Martin answered before I could. “And she is one of the owners.”
That hit the table like a dropped plate.
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