Near the end of service, Klaus called her over like she was furniture he’d paid for. He pointed to an empty chair. “Sit.”
Iris stayed standing. “I’m working, sir.”
Klaus’s smile cooled. “I’m offering you a better job. Triple pay. Discreet work. No drama.”
It wasn’t generosity. Iris could feel the hook beneath the silk. “Thank you,” she said evenly. “But no.”
Leon’s laugh was sharp. “Did she just say no?”
Klaus leaned forward, eyes narrowing as if refusal offended him personally. “You don’t understand your position,” he said. “People like you don’t say no to people like me.”
Iris held her ground. “Then you’ve misunderstood me.”
Klaus switched into German again, slow and cold, meant to land like a slap. “You’ll regret tonight. I can make sure you don’t work in this city again.”
The dining room went quiet in that way expensive rooms do when they sense a spectacle. Iris breathed in once. Then she answered—still calm, still composed—but in fluent, immaculate German, the kind that makes native speakers blink.
“I understood everything you said tonight, Mr. Falken. Every remark. Every plan. And if anyone regrets anything… it won’t be me.”
Klaus froze. Leon’s expression slipped—just for a second—like his confidence had lost its footing.
Iris didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. She set her tray down, nodded politely, and walked away as if she’d simply finished a shift. Because she wasn’t leaving the room defeated. She was leaving it awake.
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