The Billionaire Mocked The Waitress’s Dream — Her Reply Left The Entire Room Silent

A Financial Suicide Pact

Crispen Roswell stared at her for a beat, his smirk widening into a slow, patronizing smile. Then he chuckled.

“A bookstore,” Roswell repeated, drawing the word out as if it were a foreign, comical object.

“A place that sells paper in an era where my five-year-old grandson reads on a tablet? How wonderfully antiquated.” He remarked.

He turned to his associates.

“Did you hear that, gentlemen? She wants to open a bookstore—a nonprofit hobby funded by tips from serving us.” He mocked.

“Let’s analyze this, shall we, from a business perspective?” He said, tapping a manicured finger on the table.

“Your overhead would be astronomical. New York commercial rent, for one. You’d be bankrupt in a month.” He continued.

“Then there’s inventory. Books—heavy, dusty things that nobody buys anymore. Your target demographic is what? A few dozen nostalgic English professors and tourists looking for a bathroom?” He asked.

He leaned in again, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, condescending tone.

“And the cafe part? Brilliant. You want to compete with the five hundred other coffee shops in a ten-block radius, including the Starbucks on the corner?” He laughed.

“Your little dream isn’t a business, my dear; it’s a financial suicide pact.” He said.

The Price of a Dream

Katarina stood unflinching, her face a pale mask. She could feel the stares of the other patrons, a mixture of pity and morbid curiosity.

“But this is the part I truly love,” Roswell continued, his eyes glinting with cruel delight.

“You want to do this in Greenwich Village? Prime real estate—the most valuable land on the planet?” He asked.

“You want to take a plot of land that could generate millions in annual revenue with a high-rise luxury development and use it to sell $20 hardcovers and $5 lattes?” He laughed again.

“It’s the single most inefficient, nonsensical, and sentimental business idea I have ever heard. It’s a fantasy—a child’s drawing of a business.” He stated.

He then delivered the final, crushing blow.

“People like you, with your quaint little dreams, are what stands in the way of progress. You cling to dusty, worthless relics of the past.” He said.

“You don’t understand that the world moves forward. It’s built by people like me who understand value.” He continued.

“And let me tell you, the value of your dream of a tiny, forgotten bookstore… it isn’t worth the dirt the building you want to buy stands on.” He declared.

The words hung in the air, heavy and poisonous. He had taken the most precious thing she had—the core of her being—and declared it worthless.

He expected tears; he expected her to crumble, to apologize, to flee in humiliation. But Katarina did not cry.

The Secret of the Hawthorne Mandate

She stood there absorbing the full force of his contempt. In the silence that followed, she took a single, slow breath.

The fire in her chest had burned through the fear and the humiliation, leaving behind something cold, hard, and pure. It was her turn to speak.

“You’re right about one thing, Mr. Roswell,” She began, the words cutting through the stillness.

“You do understand value. You understand market value, property value, shareholder value. But you are mistaken about the building.” She said.

Roswell scoffed.

“Am I? I have a team of thirty analysts, the best in the city. I assure you I know exactly what that dilapidated brick pile is worth.” He replied.

“You know its price,” Katarina corrected him gently.

“But you don’t know its value, and you certainly don’t know its history. You see, I’m not just hoping to buy a building; I am going to acquire a very specific one.” She explained.

Slowly, deliberately, she reached into her apron and pulled out the small, leatherbound journal.

“This is my grandfather’s journal,” She said, her voice resonating with a quiet authority that captivated the room.

“He was a bookbinder and a historian of sorts. He taught me that some things—the most important things—are not written in quarterly reports or financial statements. They’re written here.” She tapped the worn leather cover.

“What is this? A sob story?” Roswell rolled his eyes.

“Your grandfather’s diary isn’t going to stop my bulldozers.” He mocked.

“It’s not a diary,” Katarina said, her voice dropping even lower.

“It’s a record. My grandfather researched the history of the Hawthorne building. He spent years in the city archives, and he found something your thirty analysts missed.” She revealed.

The Ironclad Covenant

She opened the journal to a page marked with a faded ribbon. Inside, tucked into the spine, was a delicate, folded piece of parchment.

It was a certified copy of a document, the paper yellowed with age, but still legible.

“You’re planning to buy the six properties on the west side of Bedford and consolidate the lots,” She stated as a fact.

“But you’ve overlooked a covenant—a legally binding, ironclad restriction on the original deed of the Hawthorne building filed with the city of New York in 1898.” She continued.

Roswell’s smirk finally faltered.

“It’s called the Hawthorne Mandate,” Katarina continued, her eyes locked on Roswell.

“Phineas Hawthorne was a philanthropist. He worried about men exactly like you—men who see a city as a commodity, not a community. So he placed a covenant on his building in perpetuity.” She explained.

She held up the fragile document.

“The mandate states that the property at 17 Bedford Street can never be demolished. It can be renovated, but the original facade must be preserved.” She read.

“It further states that at least 50% of the ground-floor commercial space must be occupied by an enterprise dedicated to the promotion of literature, learning, or the arts for the benefit of the public.” She added.

“A bookstore, for example, or a library, or a free reading room.” She finished.