Chapter 7 - The Wet Shirt
Max’s brain struggled to process the image in front of him.
Sitting in the executive chair was a young man in his mid-thirties, possessing an undeniable aura of absolute authority. Over his shoulders rested an impeccably tailored, five-thousand-dollar charcoal Brioni jacket.
Underneath the jacket, however, Julian was wearing a soaked, wrinkled, cotton server’s shirt. The fabric was still dark with water around the collar and ribs. On the left breast pocket, clearly visible under the open lapels of the jacket, was the silver embroidered crest of The Marlow Room.
Beside Julian’s right hand on the polished oak table sat a crystal pitcher filled with ice water.
Max took a involuntary half-step backward. His face flushed bright red, then drained completely of color, leaving his skin a sickly, grayish white.
“You...” Max stammered, pointing a trembling finger. “You’re... you’re the busboy.”
“Julian Rook,” Julian said smoothly, resting his forearms on the desk. “Owner of Rook Hospitality Group. Chairman of Rook Capital. And tonight, your designated server.”
Behind Max, Donald Keller dropped his briefcase. The heavy leather hit the floor with a dull thud, bursting open and scattering financial reports across the dark wood.
“Oh, God,” Keller whispered, clutching his chest. “Oh, sweet merciful God.”
“Shut up, Don!” Max snarled, panic making his voice crack. He whipped back toward Julian, his jaw working frantically as he tried to find words that didn't exist. “This... this is some kind of sick joke. A prank. You dressed up like a waiter to spy on me?”
“I didn't dress up like a waiter, Max,” Julian said, his voice deadly quiet. “I *am* a waiter. Once every few months, I work a shift in every property I own. Kitchen, dish pit, floor. Because I believe a leader who doesn't understand the ground floor will eventually believe the people on it don't matter.”
Julian leaned forward, his gray eyes locking onto Max like twin steel traps.
“And tonight, you proved to me exactly what you believe.”
“It was an accident!” Max shouted, his voice rising in desperation. “You spilled water on me! I was stressed! We’re closing a forty-million-dollar deal, Julian—Mr. Rook! I have four hundred jobs riding on this! You can’t let a petty dining room misunderstanding blow up a corporate acquisition!”
“A misunderstanding?” Julian echoed. He picked up the crystal pitcher sitting on the desk.
The sound of the ice clinking against the glass was deafening in the silent room.
“You didn't have a misunderstanding, Max. You looked at a human being who you believed had no power to fight back, and you poured freezing water over his head to make yourself feel like a king in front of your friends.”
Julian stood up. At six-foot-two, his presence filled the vast boardroom with an oppressive, crushing weight.
May you like
“And now,” Julian whispered, “you want forty million dollars of my money.”
***
