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

The Bloodline Revealed

A stunned silence fell over the table. Roswell recovered quickly, his face hardening.

“That’s ridiculous. Covenants like that are challenged and broken every day. It’s a historical footnote, nothing more.” He dismissed.

“Not this one,” Katarina countered, her voice unwavering.

“Because Phineas Hawthorne added one last brilliant condition. He stipulated that any sale of the building and any approval of the business fulfilling the mandate must be approved by a majority vote of a board of trustees.” She explained.

“And if that board ever dissolves, the right of approval passes directly to his own bloodline—his direct living descendants.” She paused.

She then looked directly into Crispen Roswell’s eyes.

“Phineas Hawthorne had only one child—a daughter who had only one child of her own. That line continued through my grandmother to my mother and then to me.” She revealed.

“My name is Katarina Novak Hawthorne. My grandfather dropped the Hawthorne when he came to this country to sound less conspicuous, but it is my legal name.” She stated.

“The board of trustees for the Hawthorne Mandate was officially dissolved in 1987, which means, Mr. Roswell…” She folded the document carefully.

“Your $400 million project cannot move forward without my signature. And I can assure you, you will never, ever get it.” She delivered.

A Sledgehammer to the Ego

The entire room was silent. Crispen Roswell’s face, a moment ago so full of arrogant amusement, had gone entirely pale.

The mask of power had shattered, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated shock. He had mocked the waitress’s dream only to discover that her dream was the only thing standing between him and his empire’s next great conquest.

The ghost had a voice, and her quiet reply had just shaken the foundations of his world. His lawyer, Davies, leaned in close with a panicked whisper.

“Crispen, if this is real, if that covenant is structured as she says, we have a catastrophic multi-million dollar problem. We need to verify this immediately.” He said.

Roswell didn’t look at him.

“This is a shakedown. A pathetic, well-rehearsed little scam.” He hissed.

“Is it a scam to protect my family’s legacy?” Katarina countered.

“You called my dream worthless, but it seems my worthless dream is the gatekeeper to your very valuable one.” She observed.

With a sudden movement of pure rage, Roswell’s hand shot out at his own wine glass. He knocked it over, and the dark Cabernet spread across the white linen tablecloth like a bloodstain.

The fragile crystal hit the floor and shattered.

“We’re leaving,” He snarled, shoving his chair back so violently it nearly tipped over.

The Cost of Speaking Up

He and his team swept out of the restaurant, a tempest of fury and expensive cologne. For a moment, no one moved; then, the spell shattered.

A low murmur rippled through the dining room, quickly growing into a wave of excited whispers. Katarina stood by the table, her body trembling now that the adrenaline was gone.

Frank, the manager, finally found the ability to move.

“Novak, what have you done?” He whispered, his face a mask of awe and abject terror.

“You have to go. I have to fire you. He’ll call the owner before his driver even pulls away from the curb.” He added.

“I understand, Frank,” Katarina said, her voice weary.

“But my God, Katarina,” Frank added, his voice full of grudging respect.

“In twenty years in this business, I have never, ever seen anything like that. You didn’t just stand up to Crispen Roswell; you took a sledgehammer to his ego. What a way to go.” He remarked.

As she passed a small, secluded table near the window, a hand gently touched her arm. A woman in her late forties, with sharp, intelligent eyes, looked up.

“That was the most remarkable thing I have ever witnessed in a restaurant,” The woman said.

“My name is Katherine Shaw. I’m a senior reporter for the New York Times.” She introduced herself.

The War for Justice

Katarina stopped, confused.

“Mr. Roswell has been a subject of my reporting for a while now,” Katherine continued.

“His methods of urban renewal are legally meticulous but ethically questionable. What you just did… you found a way to fight him not with picket signs, but with history.” She said.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” Katarina stammered.

“You don’t have to say anything yet,” Katherine said kindly.

“But you need to be smart. His legal team is probably drafting a lawsuit as we speak. Do you have a lawyer?” She asked.

“No. I make $19 an hour plus tips. Or I did. I can’t afford a lawyer,” Katarina replied.

Katherine pulled a business card from a sleek leather case.

“You won’t be fighting alone,” She said.

She wrote a name and a number on the back of the card.

“This is Robert Chen. He’s the head of the Urban Justice Center. They’re a nonprofit law firm of absolute bulldogs. They live for cases like this, Katarina. They’re giant killers.” She explained.

“Why are you doing this for me?” Katarina asked.

“Because a reporter’s job is to hold power accountable. And because once in a great while, a story comes along that is about the soul of the city,” Katherine answered.