7. Valentina
— ? —
Valentina
My legs won’t move. Marco just said “Yes, sir” and disappeared like it was the most natural thing in the world, like the owner of this restaurant ending a waitress’s shift so she’ll eat dinner with him is just another Tuesday.
The owner.
The mysterious waiter who bandaged my hand is the owner.
“Sit, please.” He gestures to the chair across from him, his voice calm, as if he hasn’t just upended everything I thought I understood about that night.
I don’t move. “I don’t understand. How did you-”
“Sit first. Questions later.”
I sit. Not because I want to, not because I’ve decided to, but because my legs have made the decision for me.
They fold beneath me, lowering me into the chair like a marionette whose strings have been cut.
My brain is three steps behind, still trying to process the shift from serving this man to sitting across from him.
“Who are you?” The question comes out sharper than I intend.
He meets my gaze without flinching. “Eric Bailey. I own this restaurant.”
The name lands like a stone dropped into still water. Eric Bailey. The name Marianna has mentioned a dozen times, always with that mixture of awe and amusement. The owner who shows up unannounced.
“But that night…” I shake my head, trying to reconcile the image in front of me with the memory of him kneeling on the floor, pressing a bandage to my bleeding thumb. “You were wearing the uniform. You were serving.”
“I was.”
“Why?”
He leans back in his chair, and I watch the way his shoulders settle against the leather, the casual confidence of a man entirely comfortable in his own skin. His eyes never leave mine.
“I started in restaurants at fifteen. Busboy, then waiter. Almost twenty years ago now. This was the first one I ever owned.” A pause, and something flickers across his face - not quite nostalgia, something deeper.
“Sometimes I come back, put on the uniform, help the staff. It keeps me grounded. Reminds me where I came from.”
I process this slowly, turning it over in my mind like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit.
The mysterious waiter who saw me at my lowest moment, who bandaged my cut and asked no questions, is actually a restaurant mogul.
A rich man playing waiter for some kind of spiritual exercise while I’m a marketing executive playing waitress for survival.
The irony tastes bitter on my tongue.
“So that night… you weren’t actually working.”
“I was working.” His mouth curves slightly. “Just not because I needed to.”
I don’t know what to say. I’m not angry - he didn’t owe me his life story while bandaging a stranger’s finger.
But I feel exposed, like I’ve been walking around naked without realizing it.
He’s seen me cry in a hallway. He’s seen me serve tables, struggle with trays, work for tips.
And all this time, I knew nothing about him.
“Why didn’t you tell me? That night?”
“Would it have mattered?” His voice is gentle, but there’s steel underneath. “You were crying. You were bleeding. You needed help, not my business card.”
Fair point. I hate that it’s a fair point.
He pushes a plate toward me. The steak, still steaming, the aroma rich and intoxicating. “Eat. You look like you haven’t had a proper meal in weeks.”
I want to refuse. I want to push the plate back and walk away and pretend this whole surreal evening never happened. But the steak smells incredible, and he’s right - God, I hate that he’s right - I’ve been surviving on staff meals and instant noodles, counting every dollar, rationing every bite.
I pick up the fork. Cut a piece. Put it in my mouth.
The sound that escapes me is involuntary, something between a sigh and a moan. The meat dissolves on my tongue, rich and perfectly seasoned, and for a moment I forget where I am, forget who I’m with, forget everything except the simple pleasure of good food after weeks of deprivation.
He’s watching me when I look up. A small smile plays at the corners of his mouth.
“Good?”
“Yes,” I admit, already cutting another piece. Pride is a luxury I can’t afford right now.
“So.” He pours wine into my glass, a deep burgundy that catches the candlelight. I didn’t ask for it. He doesn’t seem to care. “Why are you working here? A marketing executive serving tables.”
I freeze mid-bite. The fork hovers in the air between us.
“How do you know I was a marketing executive?”
“I’m the owner. I have to know about my staff.”
“You didn’t even know I was working here.” I raise an eyebrow, calling his bluff.
Something shifts in his expression - amusement, maybe, or appreciation. “You caught me there.”
We both laugh, and the tension in my shoulders eases slightly. His laugh is low and warm, and it transforms his face in a way I wasn’t prepared for. He looks younger when he laughs. Less like a billionaire, more like a man.
“I just need the money,” I say carefully, returning my attention to the steak. “For something important.”
“Something important,” he repeats.
“Yes.”
“What kind of something?”
I look up and meet his eyes. They’re dark and steady, genuinely curious, and for a moment I’m tempted to tell him everything.
The divorce. Sebastian. The house I lost, the company that was stolen, the viral video that destroyed my career.
The deadline hanging over my head like an executioner’s blade.
But I don’t know this man. I don’t know why he’s interested, what he wants, what angle he’s playing. Rich men don’t invite waitresses to dinner without a reason.
“The kind that’s none of your business.”
He laughs again, and I realize I like the sound of it. I shouldn’t, but I do.
“Fair enough. You don’t trust me. I’m a stranger who lied about being a waiter.”
“You didn’t lie.” I take a sip of the wine. It’s exquisite, probably worth more than my weekly salary. “You just didn’t mention the part where you own the entire restaurant.”
“Sixty-five restaurants, actually.”
I choke. Wine goes down the wrong pipe, and I spend an embarrassing thirty seconds coughing while he watches with barely concealed amusement.
“Sixty-five?” I manage finally, my voice hoarse. “Are you serious?”
“I don’t have a reason for lying.”
I set down my fork. The steak suddenly feels different in my mouth - not food I earned, but charity I accepted. The wine feels like pity. The whole dinner feels like a rescue mission, and I’m the stray dog he’s decided to adopt.
I’m sitting at a table with a man who probably makes more in a day than I’ll make in a year at this job, and he’s watching me eat like I’m some kind of project. Some broken thing he can fix.
“I should go.”
“You haven’t finished.”
“I’m not hungry anymore.”
“You’re lying.”
“Maybe.” I push back from the table, my chair scraping against the floor. “But I’m still leaving.”
I stand. He doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t reach for my hand, doesn’t stand up, doesn’t do anything except watch me with those dark, unreadable eyes.
“Valentina.”
I pause. My name sounds different in his voice. Heavier. More significant.
“I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable. I just wanted to have dinner with someone interesting. That’s all.”
“I’m not interesting.” The words come out flat, exhausted. “I’m a mess.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”
I almost smile. Almost. My mouth twitches, and I have to fight to keep my expression neutral.
“Thank you. For the food. And for… that night.”
“You already thanked me for that night.”
“Then thank you again.”
I turn to leave, my heart pounding harder than it should be. This is nothing. This means nothing. He’s a bored billionaire looking for entertainment, and I’m a convenient distraction. That’s all.
“The job.”
His voice stops me three steps from the table.
“If you need more hours. Or a different position. Something that pays better.” A pause. “The offer is there.”
I don’t turn around. I can’t. If I turn around, he’ll see my face. He’ll see how much I want to say yes. How desperate I am. How the extra money could mean a real lawyer instead of losing everything to Sebastian. Could mean fighting back instead of surrendering.
But I can’t. Not like this. Not as charity from a rich man who saw me at my worst.
“I appreciate it.” My voice is steady. I’m proud of that. “But I’m fine where I am.”
“The offer doesn’t expire.”
I walk away. Through the dining room, past the bar, into the staff room where I lean against the wall and press my palms to my face and try to remember how to breathe normally.
Sixty-five restaurants. He owns sixty-five restaurants. And he bandaged my finger like it was nothing. Like I was worth the time.
The door opens. Marianna’s voice, bright with curiosity.
“Val? Are you okay? Marco said your shift ended early and you were talking with-” She stops. “Wait, why do you look like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you just saw God and he offered you a promotion.”
I laugh. It sounds slightly hysterical even to my own ears, too high and too sharp.
“Something like that.”
“Wait.” Marianna’s eyes narrow. “Did he offer you a promotion? Do you know him?”
“Mm.”
“The owner?” Her voice rises with each word. “Like, Eric Bailey? The billionaire? THAT owner?”
“You know him?”
“Of course I know him. He shows up randomly, no one knows when. Everyone talks about it for weeks afterward.” She grabs my shoulders, her fingers digging in. “Oh my God, Val. What did he want with you?”
“I have no idea.”
“Oh my God.” Marianna’s face cycles through about six different expressions - shock, excitement, suspicion, glee. “Wait a whole damn minute.” She grabs my arm. “Valentina, you are in trouble.”
My stomach drops. “Wait, what? How am I in trouble?”
“Now I remember.” Her eyes are wide, pieces clicking together.
“He called me once. Actually, the only time I’ve talked to him on the phone.
He called asking about you because you left your card.
I thought he just wanted to find the owner of the card.
But he was asking a lot of questions about the people at the reservation.
I thought it was a little weird, but I didn’t mind. ”
The anniversary dinner. He knew. He called to find out what happened that night, and Marianna told him. He’s known about Sebastian this whole time.
“Wait.” I stare at her. “You knew? This whole time, you knew that was me?”
Marianna shrugs, suddenly gentle. “You showed up needing a job, not a witness. I figured if you wanted to talk about it, you’d talk about it. Everybody deserves a clean start.”
Something in my chest goes soft. All those weeks I thought I was hiding, she was just letting me.
“Well, that explains a lot,” I say slowly.
“How did you meet him though? You have to tell me everything.”
I tell her. The collision in the hallway. The broken plate, the cut, the bandage. The way he led me to a quiet corner and treated my wound without asking questions. The way he looked at me with those dark, steady eyes.
Marianna’s grin turns wicked.
“Don’t you think he’s cute?”
“What?” Heat floods my cheeks. “No.”
“Come on, I can see it in your face.”
“There’s nothing in my face.”
“Val. You’re blushing. You’re actually blushing right now.”
“I am not.” I press my palms to my cheeks, which are definitely, traitorously warm. “It’s just hot in here.”
Marianna cackles, throwing her head back. “Sure. The air conditioning broke specifically in your face region.”
“I’m leaving.”
“No, wait, wait.” She grabs my arm again, pulling me back. “Oh my God. Sophia is going to lose her absolute mind.”
The name hits me like cold water. Sophia. The senior server with the perfect hair and the rumored history with the owner.
“If she finds out he ended your shift and had dinner with you…” Marianna’s grin is pure evil. “Girl. She might poison your water.”
I force a laugh, but my stomach twists. “We’re not… it’s nothing.”
“Mhm.” Marianna’s expression says she doesn’t believe a word. “Keep telling yourself that. Meanwhile, I’m going to enjoy the show when Sophia finds out the new girl got more attention in one night than she’s gotten in three years.”
“Marianna.”
“What? I’m just saying. This is the most exciting thing that’s happened since Diego accidentally set his apron on fire.”
“Nothing happened. He bought me dinner. That’s all.”
“The billionaire owner of sixty-five restaurants bought you dinner and offered you a better job.” Marianna counts off on her fingers. “After calling me specifically to ask about you. After bandaging your hand the first time you met. After remembering you a month later.”
When she puts it like that, it sounds like something. It sounds like the beginning of something.
But that’s impossible. I’m a disaster. I’m getting divorced, I’m broke, I’m living in a motel surrounded by garbage bags full of my former life.
Men like Eric Bailey don’t pursue women like me.
They don’t have dinner with the help. They don’t offer promotions to strangers with hollow eyes and bleeding fingers.
“It’s nothing,” I say again.
Marianna just smiles.
“We’ll see.”