The Billionaire Mocked The Waitress’s Dream — Her Reply Left The Entire Room Silent
A Cold Resolve
Throughout the first course, Katarina moved in a daze. She refilled wine glasses, cleared plates, and answered questions about the menu, all while a silent scream echoed in her mind.
Every casual remark from their table was a death sentence for her dream. They laughed about displacing the few remaining small businesses in the area and joked about the sentimental fools at the Landmarks Preservation Commission.
Katarina felt her grandfather’s journal against her ribs, its familiar weight now feeling like a leaden stone. Stefan Novak had loved the history of that building, the story of Phineas Hawthorne, a man who believed his true legacy was in the knowledge he shared.
Crispen Roswell, a man of the god of profit, was going to pulverize that legacy into dust to make way for a parking garage. She was a ghost in their world, a waitress serving them dinner while they casually planned the demolition of the only thing she had ever truly wanted.
As she stood in the shadows by the service station, watching them feast and plot, a cold, hard resolve began to form in her heart. Her grandfather had also taught her to read not just books, but documents, history, and people.
“Knowledge, Lanka, is the only weapon that, when you give it away, makes you even stronger,” He had always said.
She didn’t know how, but she couldn’t let them do this. The fight was no longer about a quaint dream; it was about memory, legacy, and the soul of a place.
The lion was in his den, roaring about his power, unaware of the small, silent creature in the corner who knew the secret history of the ground beneath his feet. The evening wore on, a symphony of clinking silver and murmured conversations.
A Droplet of Conflict
Katarina performed her duties with robotic precision, her mind a maelstrom of fear and burgeoning anger. The spark that would ignite the inferno came from something utterly mundane.
As she was clearing the main course plates for Roswell and his associates, her arm brushed against Peterson’s water glass. It was a feather-like touch, but the glass was overfilled.
A single, perfect droplet of water escaped, rolling down the side of the crystal and landing with a nearly invisible splash on the corner of the architectural blueprint. The reaction was instantaneous and absurdly disproportionate.
“Watch it!” Peterson snapped, pulling the blueprint away as if the droplet were acid.
Roswell’s head lifted. His icy gaze, which had been fixed on the plans, swiveled to Katarina.
It was the first time he had truly looked at her all night, and his eyes held nothing but cold annoyance. He wasn’t seeing a person; he was seeing a malfunction.
“My apologies, sir,” Katarina said quietly, dabbing the spot with a fresh linen napkin.
“Apologies?” Roswell said, his voice dangerously soft.
“This document represents a $400 million project. Your apology is worth precisely nothing. Are you always this clumsy?” He asked.
Frank, the manager, immediately swooped in.
“Mr. Roswell, I am so sorry, so terribly sorry. It won’t happen again,” He gushed.
He shot Katarina a look that could curdle milk.
“Get the dessert menus. Now.” He ordered.
The Mockery of Dreams
Katarina retreated, her cheeks burning. It wasn’t the reprimand that stung; it was the utter contempt and the casual cruelty of it.
She was nothing but a clumsy servant who had dared to mar his sacred plans. When she returned with the menus, Roswell hadn’t let it go.
He was bored, dinner was ending, and he had found a new target for his casually wielded power. He leaned back in the booth, steepling his fingers.
“Tell me, what does someone like you think about when you’re sloshing water on people’s work? Are you thinking about anything at all, or is it just empty up there?” He asked, ignoring the dessert menu she offered.
Davies and Peterson chuckled, a sycophantic chorus. Katarina stood frozen, the menus in her hand.
Every instinct for self-preservation screamed at her to apologize again and flee. But the words they had spoken earlier—”brick eyesore,” “tear down,” “parking entrance”—were still ringing in her ears.
They were talking about destroying her grandfather’s memory, her one and only dream, and now he was mocking her very existence.
“I think about a great many things, sir,” She said, her voice barely a whisper but steady.
Roswell raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips.
“Oh, really? Do enlighten me. What grand ambitions occupy the mind of a waitress? Are you hoping to one day be promoted to head waitress?” He asked.
The Trap is Set
The laughter from his associates was louder this time. Other tables nearby were beginning to notice the exchange.
“No, sir,” Katarina said, lifting her chin slightly.
“No? Then what is it?” Roswell pressed, leaning forward like a predator toying with its prey.
“Let’s hear it. Impress me. What is your grand, overarching goal in life?” He demanded.
Frank was now making frantic slicing motions with his hand across his throat from across the room. But Katarina couldn’t shut up.
This man was demanding to hear her dream for the sole purpose of mocking it. He was holding the axe over its neck and asking her to admire the sharpness of the blade.
Something inside her, a quiet, resilient core she had inherited from a long line of stubborn Novak ancestors, refused to break. She would not let him have the satisfaction of her silence or her shame.
She took a slow, deliberate breath.
“I have a dream, Mr. Roswell,” She said, her voice finding a new strength.
“It’s not a grand ambition in your world, perhaps, but it is everything in mine.” She continued.
“Well, don’t keep us in suspense,” He drawled, gesturing around the now quiet table.
“We’re all waiting.” He said.
The powerful billionaire leaned forward with a predatory grin, and the lone waitress stood her ground, her back ramrod straight.
“I’m going to buy a building,” Katarina began, her voice gaining clarity with each word.
“An old one in Greenwich Village. I’m going to restore it and turn it into a bookstore and cafe.” She finished.
