I took the leather folder from Martin and opened it. Inside were the updated Mother’s Day seating map, ownership summaries from the morning briefing, and a printed note from the events coordinator about VIP tables. Not because I needed any of it—but because visuals matter when certain people only recognize authority when it’s documented.
I met my mother’s eyes. “I’ll handle it.”
Cheryl shifted uneasily.
Vanessa let out a small laugh. “What exactly is going on?”
I closed the folder. “You made a public comment intended to humiliate a member of staff in front of guests.”
My mother lifted her chin. “I made an observation.”
“No,” I said. “You tried to stage an embarrassment.”
Trevor, who had wisely stayed quiet, murmured, “Diane, maybe we should just sit down.”
But my mother was already too committed to back down gracefully. “Honestly, Olivia, don’t be dramatic. We’re the customers.”
Martin spoke before I could. “And she is one of the owners.”
The words landed like a dropped plate.
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