No One Could Serve the Foreign Tycoon… Until the Waitress Switched Languages…
Silence is usually a sign of luxury, but in the main dining hall of the Kensington Grill that night, the silence was a scream waiting to happen. A plate shattered against the imported Italian marble floor, the sound echoing like a gunshot. It wasn’t an accident. The billionaire in the corner booth, a man whose net worth could buy the entire city block, had just dismissed his third waiter in 20 minutes.
The staff was trembling. The manager was hyperventilating. No one could get close enough to pour water without being verbally decimated. They thought the night was over. They thought the reputation of the restaurant was destroyed. But they didn’t know that the quiet girl polishing glasses in the back station held a secret that was about to flip the power dynamic of the entire room.
Rain lashed against the floor toseeiling windows of the Kensington Grill, one of London’s most exclusive dining establishments. Inside the air was temperature controlled, scented with white tea and anxiety. Tonight the anxiety was palpable. Preston Galloway, the restaurant’s floor manager, wiped a bead of sweat from his receding hairline.
He adjusted his silk tie, though it was already perfectly straight. He looked like a man standing on the gallows. His eyes darted towards the private corner booth, table one, where the source of his misery sat. Victor Fulkoff. The name alone was enough to drop the stock market by a few points. An oligarch of immense, terrifying influence, Fulov controlled shipping lanes in the Baltic and energy grids in Eastern Europe.
He was a man who didn’t just move money, he moved governments. And right now he was staring at his appetizer, a perfectly plated tuna tartar with truffle shavings with the look of a man who had just been insulted. “Garbage!” Folk rumbled. The word was low, heavy, and coated in a thick, impenetrable accent. With a flick of his wrist, he shoved the plate away.
It skidded across the white tablecloth, teetering dangerously on the edge. Get it out of my sight. Volkoff barked at Thomas, the senior server who had been working at Kensington for 15 years. Thomas, usually unflapable, was shaking. Sir, sir, is there something wrong with the truffle? I can ask Chef Ramsay.
I did not ask for excuses. Volkoff slammed his hand on the table. The cutlery jumped. I asked for service. This place, it is a joke. A pathetic joke. Thomas retreated, pale and defeated. He practically ran back to the service station where the rest of the staff were huddled like sheep during a thunderstorm.
I can’t go back there, Thomas whispered, his voice cracking. He told me if I speak English to him one more time with that peasant accent, he will buy the building and fire me personally. Preston Galloway hissed. Thomas, pull yourself together. That man’s bill is going to cover our overhead for the month. He’s ordered the 1982 Petrus.
We need someone to pour it. You go, Preston, said Lucas the bartender, polishing a glass nervously. Preston scoffed. I am management. I oversee. I do not pour. The truth was, Preston was terrified. He had tried to greet Vulov 20 minutes ago, and had been told his cologne smelled like cheap desperation.
In the shadows of the service station, almost invisible behind a stack of clean linens, stood Simone Carter. Simone was 24 with messy brown hair tied back in a severe bun that the dress code required. She wasn’t a senior server. She wasn’t even a front waiter. She was a runner and a buser. Her job was to carry heavy trays, polish silver until her fingers bled, and remain entirely unseen.
She was the ghost of the machine. She watched the chaos unfold with tired, observant eyes. She needed this job. Her rent in the outskirts of Hackne was overdue, and her mother’s medical bills were piling up on the kitchen counter like snow drifts. She couldn’t afford to lose this shift. And if Vulov stormed out, Preston would likely fire everyone in a fit of rage.
“We need a sacrifice,” Preston muttered, his eyes scanning the terrified staff. He needed someone he could blame if things went wrong. Someone expendable. His eyes landed on Simone. “You,” Preston snapped, pointing a manicured finger at her. Simone froze. “Mis, sir?” “Yes, Carter.” “You grab the decanter. Go pour the wine.
” “But sir,” Simone stammered, clutching her polishing cloth. “I’m not authorized to serve wine. I’m a runner. I haven’t done the smellier course yet. I don’t care if you haven’t done a course in breathing.” Preston hissed, grabbing the heavy crystal decanter of 1982 Petrus and shoving it into her hands. Everyone else has failed.
If he screams at you while you’re just a buser, it doesn’t reflect on the senior staff. Now go. If you spill a drop, don’t bother coming back tomorrow. The injustice of it burned in her chest, but the weight of the crystal decanter grounded her. She looked at the dark red liquid swirling inside. It was worth more than her father’s car. Go.
Preston shoved her shoulder. Simone tooka breath. She smoothed the front of her black apron. She kept her head down. She walked out of the safety of the service station and onto the floor. The restaurant was oddly quiet. Other diners were pretending to eat, but everyone was watching table one out of the corner of their eyes.
They were watching the execution. Simone approached the table. Vulkov was looking out the window, his profile sharp and angry. He looked like a statue carved out of granite. He was speaking into a phone, a rapidfire stream of aggressive words before hanging up and slamming the device onto the table. He sensed her presence and turned.
His eyes were cold blue ice. “What is this?” he growled, not looking at her face, but at the decanter. Another incompetent child to spill wine on my suit. Simone didn’t tremble. She had grown up in a house where shouting was common, where walking on eggshells was a survival skill, but more importantly, she heard something in his voice.
He had been speaking English to the staff, broken, aggressive English. But when he was on the phone just now and when he muttered under his breath, he wasn’t speaking Russian. Everyone assumed he was Russian because of his name and the press reports. But Simone’s ear, trained by a childhood that was far more complicated than her current station suggested, picked up a nuance. The inflection was different.
The vowels were harder. It wasn’t Russian. It was Serbian. specifically a dialect from the rural mountains near the border of Montenegro. She stepped forward. She didn’t pour the wine yet. Get away. Folk swiped his hand through the air. I am leaving. This place is full of idiots who do not understand what I want.
Preston Galloway was watching from the shadows. A smug look on his face, ready to step in and fire Simone the moment the tycoon exploded. Simone took a risk. It was a massive careerending risk. She stopped moving. She stood up straight, dropping the subservient posture of a waitress. She looked Victor Vulov directly in the eyes.
The silence at the table stretched for 3 seconds, but it felt like an hour. Then Simone spoke. She didn’t speak in the Queen’s English. She didn’t use the polite scripted French of fine dining. Sir, the wine needs to breathe. If you leave now, you will insult the grapes, not the manager. The words hung in the air. Victor Volulkov froze.
His hand, halfway to grabbing his phone to summon his security detail, stopped in midair. The expression on his face shifted from rage to absolute shock. It was as if someone had slapped him, but with a feather. He slowly turned his head, looking at Simone for the first time, really looking at her.
He saw the frayed collar of her shirt, the tired eyes, the cheap shoes. But he also heard the perfect flawless cadence of his childhood home. “Kossiti, who are you?” he whispered, his voice dropping an octave. The aggression leaked out of his posture, replaced by intense curiosity. Simone didn’t break eye contact. She poured the wine.
Her hand was steady as a rock. The dark red liquid ribboned into the glass, hitting the perfect level. She gave the bottle a slight twist, the professional turn, to prevent a drip. Samco. I am just someone who knows that Petrus does not tolerate the noise, she replied in Serbian, keeping her tone respectful. but firm. Volkov stared at her.
Then a sound erupted from his chest. It was a bark, short and loud. Preston Galloway, watching from the station, flinched. This is it, he thought. He’s going to throw the glass at her. But Fulov wasn’t yelling. He was laughing. It was a rusty, dry laugh. the laugh of a man who hadn’t found anything funny in a very long time.
“She speaks the truth,” Vulov roared in English, loud enough for the whole room to hear, slamming his hand on the table again, but this time in delight. “She says, “I am shouting too much for the wine.” He looked at Simone, his eyes twinkling with a sudden dangerous intelligence. He switched back to Serbian.
“Where did you learn this? You are a British girl. You look like a London mouse. How do you speak the tongue of the Konagora Mountains? Simone clutched the decanter against her chest. This was the dangerous part. The truth was painful. The truth was the reason she was a waitress and not finishing her master’s degree.
My father, she said softly in his language. He was stationed in Belgrade in the ’90s. We lived in the countryside during the ceasefire. I learned to speak before I learned to write English. My nanny was from Nixik. Folk’s face softened. A shadow passed over his eyes. A flicker of nostalgia mixed with pain. Nix, he murmured. I haven’t been back in 20 years.
He gestured to the empty chair across from him. Sit, he commanded in English. Simone hesitated. Sir, I cannot. I am on duty. the manager. Vulkoff turned his head towards the service station. He spotted Preston Galloway lurking behind a decorative palm plant. Vulov raised a finger and beckoned him over. Prestonstraightened his jacket and rushed over.
A smile plastered on his face that looked more like a grimace. “Mr. Vulkoff, I apologize if the girl has disturbed.” “Shut up,” Vulov said calmly. “Bring a glass for her. She is drinking with me.” Preston blinked. I I beg your pardon. She is staff. It is strictly against protocol for staff to Vulov didn’t shout this time.
He just leaned forward, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper. I am buying the bottle. I own the liquid inside it. If I want to pour it into the plant, I will. If I want to pour it for this young lady who is the only person in this city with a brain, I will. Bring the glass or I buy this restaurant and turn it into a parking lot.
Preston turned a shade of pale usually reserved for dead fish. Right away, Mr. Vulov, immediately he scured away. Simone felt the eyes of every staff member on her back. She knew what this meant. She was breaking every rule, but she also knew that refusing Folkoff now would be more dangerous than obeying him.
She sat on the edge of the velvet chair. Preston returned with a glass, his hand shaking as he placed it down. He shot Simone a look of pure venom, a look that promised retribution the moment the guest left. Simone ignored him. Vulov poured the wine for her himself. Cheers, he said, raising his glass. Zivy, Zivy, Simone replied. They drank.
It was the best wine she had ever tasted. complex, earthy, tasting of history and money. So, Folk said, leaning back and studying her. You are Simone, and you are hiding. Simone choked slightly on the wine. I’m not hiding, sir. I’m working. No. Vulov shook his head. I know people who hide. I have been hiding for half my life, even in the spotlight.
You have the hands of a worker, but the voice of an educated woman, and you speak a dialect that is dying out. Why are you here wiping tables for idiots like him? He gestured vaguely toward where Preston was standing. Simone hesitated. How much could she say? My father died 3 years ago, she said, switching back to English to keep a distance.
He was involved in some bad investments after he retired from the service. He lost everything. The house, the pension. He left my mother with significant debts. I dropped out of university to help pay them. Folk swirled his wine, whirled his debts. Money is a cage or a key. Depending on who holds it. He looked at her intensely.
My business partners, they send me translators, Oxford graduates, men in expensive suits who learned Russian at university. They know the words, but they do not know the music. They do not know when I am joking and when I am threatening to kill them. It is exhausting. He took a sip. I have a meeting tomorrow, a very important negotiation.
It involves land rights in the Balkans. The men I am meeting, they are sharks. If I use a standard translator, they will speak in code around him. They will think I am just a rich tourist. He leaned in closer. But you, you speak the dialect of the villages where the mines are. You know the slang. You know the insults. Simone’s heart began to hammer against her ribs. She saw where this was going.
I need you tomorrow, Foloff said. Sir, I have a shift tomorrow lunch, Simone said automatically. Vulov laughed again. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a money clip. He peeled off a stack of £50 notes. It must have been £2,000 and dropped it on the table like it was a napkin.
That is for your manager to cover your shift. And this? He pulled out a business card. It was black, heavy, with gold embossing. Vulov Industries. Come to the Mandarin Oriental Hotel tomorrow at 9:00 a.m. Suite 400. Wear something professional. Not this, he gestured to her apron. Not this servant costume. Mr. Vulov, I can’t, Simone said, panic rising.
I’m not a translator. I’m a waitress. I don’t know anything about business. I don’t need you to know business, Vulov said, his eyes turning hard again. I need you to listen. I need you to tell me what they are saying when they think I am not listening. I need a spy, Simone, not a translator. Simone stared at the card.
This was insane. It was the plot of a movie, not her life. But then she thought of the stack of final notice letters on her kitchen counter. She thought of her mother’s tired face. “What is the pay?” she asked, her voice trembling. [clears throat] Folk smiled. It was a wolf’s smile. If you survive the meeting, he said, I will pay off your father’s debt. All of it.
The glass slipped from Simone’s fingers, tipping over. But before it could spill, Vulkoff caught it. His reflexes were unnaturally fast. “Careful,” he whispered. “Do not waste the petrus.” Just then, the front doors of the restaurant burst open. The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly.
If Vulkoff was a lion, the men who just walked in were hyenas. three of them. They wore trench coats that were too long and sunglasses at night. They didn’t wait to be seated. They scanned the room, their heads moving in unison. Folk went rigid. Hedidn’t turn around, but Simone saw his knuckles turn white around the stem of his glass.
“Don’t look,” he hissed at her in Serbian. “Keep smiling. Drink your wine.” “Who are they?” Simone whispered, terrified. problems,” Vulov said. “My past has come to London earlier than expected.” One of the men spotted Vulov. He tapped the others. They began to move through the dining room, knocking into a waiter carrying a tray of oysters.
The crash was deafening. Preston Galloway rushed forward. “Gentlemen, you cannot just” The lead intruder simply shoved Preston into a table of elderly tourists. Volkov stood up. He buttoned his jacket. He looked at Simone. “Change of plans,” he said calmly. The interview starts now. There is a back exit through the kitchen. Yes, Simone gasped. Good.
Take me there now. But Simone, Vulov said, and for the first time he looked afraid. Not for himself, but for something else. If those men reach this table, I will not be the only one who gets hurt. Move. Simone didn’t think. She acted. She grabbed the bottle of Petrus. Why? she didn’t know and grabbed Volkov’s arm.
“Follow [clears throat] me,” she said. She led the billionaire tycoon away from the table toward the swinging double doors of the kitchen just as the three men broke into a run. [clears throat] The kitchen of the Kensington Grill was a biome of controlled violence. Steam hissed from massive stockps. Flames licked the ceilings from saute pans, and the air was thick with the smell of searing steak and garlic.
When Simone burst through the swinging doors, dragging a 6’2 billionaire by the sleeve of his 3,000 suit, the ecosystem collapsed. Service behind! Simone screamed, reverting to her training. Despite the absurdity of the situation, Chef Ramsay, a man whose face was permanently the color of a raw beet, looked up from the pass.
He held a pair of tongs like a weapon. Carter, what in the bloody hell are you doing? You can’t bring guests back here. Move, chef. Simone didn’t slow down. She navigated the slippery red tiled floor with the agility of a mountain goat, a skill honed by 3 years of dodging hot pans and angry sue chefs.
Victor Vulov was less graceful. He slipped on a stray piece of lettuce, his heavy Italian loafers finding no traction. Simone yanked him upright just as a sue chef swung a tray of hot oil to the washing station. “Sorry,” Simone yelled. Behind them, the double doors crashed open again. The three men in trench coats spilled into the kitchen. They didn’t shout service.
One of the intruders, a man with a scar running through his eyebrow, reached into his coat. He wasn’t reaching for a wallet. “Gun!” Vulov roared, shoving Simone behind a stainless steel prep table. The kitchen staff froze. The sight of a firearm in a luxury London kitchen was so alien that for a second nobody moved.
Then the intruder fired a warning shot into the ceiling. Plaster rained down into the vishes. Pandemonium erupted. Chefs dove under counters. The dishwasher, a massive man named Tiny, dropped a rack of plates. The back exit. Simone hissed, grabbing Vulov’s hand again. Through the dry storage. They scrambled on hands and knees past the line cooks, the smell of fear now mixing with the truffle oil.
Simone knew this kitchen better than her own apartment. She knew that behind the walk-in freezer, there was a narrow corridor used for garbage disposal that led to the alley. There, she pointed to a heavy gray door marked emergency exit only. Alarm will sound. “Kick it!” Folk ordered. Simone didn’t hesitate. She threw her shoulder against the bar.
The alarm screeched. A piercing rhythmic whale that added to the chaos. The door flew open and the cold London rain slapped them in the face. They tumbled out into the alleyway. It was dark, smelling of wet cardboard and refues. The door slammed shut behind them, muffling the screams from the kitchen. But Simone knew the gunman wouldn’t be far behind.
“My car,” Vulov panted, wiping rain from his eyes. “It is parked on the street around the corner.” “No time,” Simone said, looking at the layout of the alley. “They’ll expect you to go to the street. They’ll cut us off at the mouth of the alley.” Then where? Volkov looked at her and for the first time he wasn’t looking at a waitress.
He was looking at a partner. Simone pointed to a fire escape ladder hanging 10 ft above them attached to the back of the neighboring building, an old theater. Up. We cross the roof. It drops down into the market on the next block. Volkov looked at his bespoke suit, then at the rusty grimecovered ladder. I am worth $12 billion.
I do not climb fire escapes. The back door of the restaurant burst open. The man with the scar stepped out, the silencer on his pistol gleaming in the street light. Vulov grabbed the bottom rung of the ladder, pulled it down with a groan of metal, and gestured frantically, “Ladies first, no!” Simone scrambled up, the bottle of 1982 Petrus still miraculously clutched inher left hand.
She tucked it into the waistband of her apron and climbed. Folk followed, surprisingly agile for a man of his size. A puffed sound echoed. A suppressed gunshot. A spark erupted from the iron railing inches from Vulov’s hand. “Faster,” Simone yelled. They crested the roof just as two more shots pinged off the metal.
They rolled onto the tar paper roof of the theater, out of the line of fire. Vulov lay on his back, breathing heavily, rain soaking his white shirt. He looked at Simone. She was covered in soot. Her hair was plastered to her face, and she was fiercely guarding a bottle of wine. He started to laugh again. It was a manic, adrenalinefueled sound.
You, he pointed at her. You kept the wine. Simone looked down at the bottle. You paid for it. It seemed wasteful to leave it. Vulkoff sat up, ignoring the ruin of his suit. Simone Carter, you are either the bravest woman in London, or the most foolish. Probably the foolish one, she admitted, shivering as the adrenaline began to fade. I just lost my job.
Preston is going to kill me if those men don’t. Preston is a cockroach, Vulov dismissed him with a wave of his hand. He pulled out a sleek waterproof phone and dialed a number. Bruno, south side of the glimmer theater. 2 minutes. Bring the extraction team. He hung up and looked at Simone. His eyes were deadly serious now. You didn’t just lose a job, Simone.
You saved my life. Those men, they are not common thieves. They are mercenaries hired by the consortium, my competitors. He crawled closer to her on the wet roof. Tonight was a message. They want me to panic. They want me to cancel the meeting tomorrow, so I forfeit the land rights. He paused.
But they made a mistake. They made me angry. And they introduced me to you. Simone hugged her knees. I don’t want to be involved in this, Mister. Folk, I’m just a girl trying to pay off a debt. And tomorrow, Vulov said, his voice dropping to that low, hypnotic register. You will pay it all off. But you cannot go home tonight.
They saw your face. They know you helped me. If you go back to your apartment in Hackne, they will be waiting. Simone’s blood ran cold. My mother. She’s in a care home. [clears throat] Are they going to? No, they want me. You are just a loose end. But loose ends get cut. He stood up and offered her a hand.
You are with me now. Until this is over, I protect what is mine. Simone looked at his hand. It was large, scarred, and steady. She had a choice. Go back down the fire escape to a life of debt and danger, or take the hand of the devil she didn’t know. She took his hand. The safe house was not a house. It was the entire top floor of the Mandarin Oriental bought out for the week under the name of a shell company after a silent terrifying ride in an armored SUV driven by a man named Bruno who looked like he was carved out of granite and
didn’t speak a word. Simone found herself standing in a bathroom larger than her entire apartment. Take a shower, Folkoff had ordered her, shoving a plush white robe into her arms. Burn the clothes you’re wearing. Bruno will bring you something suitable. Simone stood under the hot water for 20 minutes, trying to wash away the smell of the kitchen and the alleyway.
The water turned gray at her feet. She scrubbed her skin until it was pink, trying to process the last 2 hours. Gunshots, rooftops, billionaires. She stepped out and wrapped herself in the robe. On the marble counter, a new set of clothes had appeared. It wasn’t a waitress uniform. It was a sleek navy blue business suit, a silk cream blouse, and a pair of heels that looked like weapons.
Next to them was a small velvet box. She opened the box. Inside was a simple pair of diamond studs and a heavy encrypted smartphone. There was a note for the part. V. Simone dressed. The suit fit perfectly. Too perfectly. It was tailored. How had he known her size? The realization made her shiver. Folk was a man who noticed everything. She walked out into the main suite.
The floor toseeiling windows offered a panoramic view of Hyde Park, dark and serene. Folk was standing by the fireplace, holding two glasses. He had changed as well into a fresh charcoal suit, looking as if he hadn’t just been crawling on a roof. On the table between them sat the bottle of 1982 Petrus. He had decanted it.
“You look like a killer,” Folkoff said, turning to face her. “Excellent.” “I feel like a fraud,” Simone said, walking over. The heels clicked on the hardwood. “Mr. Vulov, about tomorrow, Victor,” he corrected. “If you call me Mr. Vulov, tomorrow they will know you’re a subordinate. You must act like an equal.
You are my consultant, my external auditor. He handed her [clears throat] a glass of the wine. Sit. We have work to do. Simone sat. You said you needed a spy. What exactly am I listening for? Victor sat opposite her, his face illuminated by the fire light. The men we are meeting are led by a man named Donovan.
He represents a Britishinvestment firm, but the money is not British. It comes from the same mountains my family is from. He took a sip of wine. They claim they want to build a hydroelectric dam on my land. They say it is for green energy, for the people, he scoffed. But the contract they sent me. The Serbian translation has errors. Deliberate errors. What kind of errors? Simone asked.
Her linguistic curiosity peaked. Subtle ones, a change in tense, a missing preposition. In English, the contract says, “I retain mineral rights.” In the Serbian version, the clause is ambiguous. It implies the land is sold whole and entire below the earth. Simone’s eyes widened. Lithium. Victor smiled. A genuine sharp smile.
Smart girl. Yes, that valley sits on the largest lithium deposit in Europe. Trillions of dollars for batteries. They want to steal it from me by tricking me into signing a document where the two languages contradict each other. In international court, they will argue the local language takes precedence.
And you want me to catch them doing it? Simone realized. I want you to wait, Victor corrected. They will bring their own translator, a woman named Elena. She is good, but she is corrupt. She will translate their English lies into Serbian lies. I want you to sit there, look pretty, and say nothing. Say nothing until the end, Victor said.
When they think they have won, when they start speaking to each other in the local dialect, the dialect of the miners, which Elellanena thinks I have forgotten, and which they think you do not know, that is when you will hear the truth. He slid a file across the table. Open it. No. Simone opened the manila folder.
The first page was a photo of a man. She gasped, dropping her wine glass onto the table. Fortunately, it was empty. The photo was of her father. Arthur Carter. You knew him, she whispered. I didn’t just know him, Victor said softly. Arthur was the only honest man in Bgrade in 1999. He worked for the British embassy.
Yes, but he helped my family get out of the war zone. He saved my sister. Simone felt tears prick her eyes. He never told me that. He wouldn’t. He was a humble man and a terrible gambler. Victor’s face hardened. The debt he owed. The debt that killed him. [clears throat] He didn’t lose that money at a casino. Simone.
Simone stood up, her hands trembling. What are you talking about? The police report said the police report was bought. Victor interrupted. Your father discovered the lithium survey results 5 years ago. He tried to warn the local landowners. The syndicate, Donovan’s people. They framed him. They manufactured the debt to silence him. They drove him to his grave.
The room spun. All the years of shame of watching her father wither away under the weight of gambling debts. All the extra shifts she had worked to pay back criminals. It was all a lie. It was a cover up. “Why are you telling me this now?” she asked, her voice cracking. Victor stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the city lights.
Because tomorrow is not just business, he said, his reflection looking back at her in the glass. Tomorrow is vengeance. I am going to destroy Donovan. I am going to bankrupt his firm and expose the fraud. He turned back to her. But I cannot do it alone. I need his words. I need his confession.
And he will only give that when he thinks he is safe. speaking the slang of the gutter to his partners. Victor walked over to her and placed his hands on her shoulders. The heat of his palms radiated through the silk of her blouse. They killed your father, Simone. They tried to kill me tonight. Help me burn them down.
Simone looked into his ice blue eyes. She saw the rage there, but she also saw the pain. And in her own heart, the fear was evaporating, replaced by a cold, hard knot of anger. She thought of Preston Galloway treating her like trash. She thought of the final notice letters. She thought of her father weeping at the kitchen table, apologizing for being a failure.
She wasn’t a waitress anymore. Simone reached up and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Her expression matched Victor’s. Cold, determined, lethal. What time is the meeting? She asked. Victor grinned. 9:00 a.m. Get some sleep, Simone. Tomorrow we go to war. The conference room in suite 400 was a theater of war disguised as a sanctuary of luxury.
The walls were panled in mahogany. The carpet was thick enough to silence footsteps, and the view of London was obscured by heavy velvet drapes, keeping the focus entirely on the massive glass table in the center. Victor sat at the head of the table, flanked by Simone on his right and his silent bodyguard, Bruno, standing by the door. On the other side sat the enemy.
Robert Donovan was a man who looked like he had been manufactured in a boardroom. His suit was shark gray, his teeth were bleached white, and his eyes were dead. He didn’t look like a thug. He looked like a hedge fund manager, which was infinitely more dangerous. To his leftsat Elena.
She was striking with severe black hair and red lipstick, clutching a tablet as if it were a shield. She was the translator Donovan had brought, the expert who was supposed to bridge the gap. Mr. Vulov, Donovan began, his voice smooth and oily. It’s a pleasure to finally meet the man behind the legend. We were surprised to hear about the incident at the restaurant last night.
London can be unpredictable. Victor didn’t smile. He leaned back in his chair, playing with a heavy gold fountain pen. He looked bored. He looked like the arrogant, impatient oligarch they expected him to be. London is a zoo, Victor grunted. Let’s skip the pleasantries, Donovan. I have a plane to catch at 2 p.m. I want this done.
Donovan exchanged a quick, satisfied glance with Elellanena. impatience, his eyes said. Good. Of course, Donovan said, “As agreed. We have prepared the final contracts for the land acquisition in the Dina Valley. The terms are exactly as discussed. We build the dam. You retain surface rights and mineral rights, and we pay you a premium for the disruption.
” He slid two thick binders across the table. One was bound in blue, English, the other in red, Serbian. Elena will walk us through the finer points,” Donovan said. Elena cleared her throat. She opened the red binder. She began to read the contract aloud in Serbian, ostensibly for Victor’s benefit. Simone sat perfectly still.
She had a notepad in front of her, and she was making random doodles of flowers, looking for all the world, like a bored assistant who didn’t understand a word of the guttural language filling the room. But inside her mind was racing. Elena was reading clause 14, section B. The seller retains all rights to subsurface resources, including but not limited to oil, gas, and precious metals.
It sounded perfect. It matched the English version. But then Elena’s eyes flicked to the next paragraph. She sped up slightly, her voice flattening. However, Elena read in Serbian, “If geological instability requires structural reinforcement, the buyer assumes total control of the geological stratum to a depth of 5 km.
” Simone’s pen stopped moving. That clause wasn’t in the English version. She had read the blue binder 10 minutes ago. In the English version, it said the buyer would consult the seller about reinforcements, total control of the geological stratum. That was the lithium. They were stealing the rights under the guise of structural safety.
Simone looked at Victor. He was nodding along, feigning ignorance. Is there a problem? Donovan asked, noticing Simone’s paws. Victor looked at Simone. “Is there Miss Carter? You’re checking the numbers.” Simone looked up, forcing a vapid, polite smile. “Oh, no, sir. I was just admiring the font. It’s very professional.” Donovan smirked.
He clearly dismissed her as a non- entity. Glad you approve. Shall we continue? The meeting [clears throat] dragged on for an hour. The deception was layered, complex, and brazen. Elena would read a paragraph that sounded standard, but the Serbian legalizes contained loopholes wide enough to drive a mining truck through.
They were planning to evict the local villages, seize the water rights, and strip mine the valley, all while Victor would be legally paralyzed to stop them. Every time Elena lied, Simone drew a small X in the corner of her notepad. By the end of the hour, there were 12 X’s. “Well,” Donovan said, clasping his hands together. “I think that covers it.
The price is generous, Mr. Volkoff. €100 million euros for a piece of rocky land that frankly isn’t worth half that. Victor sighed heavily. He rubbed his temples. It is a lot of paper, Victor complained. My head hurts. I just want to sign. Of course, Donovan said, uncapping a pen and pushing it toward Victor.
Just on the dotted line, and the wire transfer will be initiated immediately. Victor picked up the pen. He hovered it over the paper. “Wait,” Victor said. The room went deadly silent. Donovan’s smile faltered. “I am thirsty,” Victor said petulently. “Simone, pour me water.” Simone stood up. She walked to the sideboard. Her back was to the table.
While the water pitcher clinkedked, Donovan leaned toward Elena. He spoke, but he didn’t speak English, and he didn’t speak standard Serbian. He switched to a rough localized dialect. The slang of the smugglers and corrupt officials in the border region. It was the language they thought was safe, the language of the dirt.
Donovan muttered. This peasant is about to sign his own death warrant. Elena giggled softly. He thinks he is a king, but he is selling the crown for pennies. Cow Onage Carter Donovan whispered his voice dropping even lower vera draimo to budalu. Just hope he doesn’t end up like that Carter guy.
Took us too long to fix that fool. Simone froze. The water pitcher hovered over the glass. Carter, they had just confessed right there in the open. They believed their code was unbreakable. They believed Simone was just a waitressin a suit and Victor was just a disconnected billionaire who had forgotten the streets. Simone turned around. She walked back to the table.
She placed the glass of water in front of Victor. She didn’t sit down. She placed her hand on Victor’s shoulder. It was the signal. “Sir,” Simone said, a voice clear and ringing in the silent room. Before you sign, I believe there is a translation error in clause 14. Donovan laughed. It was a harsh, dismissive sound. Excuse me.
The young lady is a legal expert now. No, Simone said, her eyes locking onto Donovan’s, but I am an expert in dirt. She picked up the red binder, the Serbian contract. Elena, Simone said, looking at the translator. You translated structural reinforcement as total geological control. That is a very creative interpretation of the word pyakan.
Elena’s face drained of color, her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Donovan stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. What is the meaning of this, Victor? Control your staff. Victor didn’t look at Donovan. He looked at Simone. Go on, Simone. Simone walked around the table. She moved with a predator’s grace.
Now the nervous assistant act completely vanished. She stopped behind Donovan’s chair. And just now, Simone said, switching effortlessly into English. Mr. Donovan expressed concern that Mr. Vulov might end up like that Carter guy. She leaned down, whispering into Donovan’s ear. Did you mean Arthur Carter? Donovan stiffened as if he had been electrocuted.
He looked at Victor, then at Simone, his eyes wide with dawn terrifying realization. “Who are you?” Donovan rasped. Simone switched languages. She didn’t speak the polite Serbian of the capital. She spoke the exact grimy dialect Donovan had just used, the language of the mountains. “Jasam cherka budal kju ubio,” she snarled.
I am the daughter of the fool you killed. The room exploded into chaos. Donovan reached into his jacket, perhaps for a phone, perhaps for a weapon. But Bruno was there instantly. The bodyguard moved like a blur, pinning Donovan’s hand to the table with one massive paw. “Sit!” Bruno growled. Victor stood up slowly. He didn’t look bored anymore. He looked like a titan.
[clears throat] “You thought I was stupid,” Victor said, his voice low and trembling with rage. “You thought because I wear Italian suits and live in London, I have forgotten the sound of a snake.” He picked up the red binder and threw it. It hit Donovan in the chest, papers scattering everywhere. “This contract,” Victor roared, “is fraud! Attempted grand larseny, and thanks to this recording.
” Victor tapped the gold fountain pen he had been playing with. He unscrewed the cap to reveal a tiny blinking red light. I have your voice, Donovan. I have you admitting to the contract tampering, and I have you admitting to the murder of Arthur Carter. Donovan was sweating profusely now, the shark gay suit suddenly looking like a prison uniform. You You can’t use that.
It’s inadmissible. Entrament in a court of law, maybe. Victor smiled cruy. But I am not sending this to the police first. I am sending it to the consortium, to your investors. Donovan’s eyes bulged. No, you can’t. They’ll kill me. They hate failure, don’t they? Victor mused. And you have failed spectacularly.
You let a waitress outsmart you. Victor turned to Elena. The translator was shaking, tears streaming down her face. Get out, Victor said softly. Run before I change my mind and give you to the police. Elena scrambled up, grabbing her purse, and ran out of the room without looking back. Victor turned his attention back to Donovan.
Simone, Victor said, what is the price of the debt your father supposedly owed? £200,000, Simone said, her voice steady, though her heart was pounding. Donovan, Victor said, you will transfer £5 million to Miss Carter’s account immediately as a consulting fee. 5 million? Donovan sputtered. I don’t have that kind of liquidity. Then sell your car. Sell your house.
Sell your soul, Victor said, leaning across the table until he was nose ton-nose with the terrified executive. because if that money is not in her account in 10 minutes I upload this audio file to the internet and then I call my friends in Belgrade. Donovan fumbled for his phone with shaking hands. He opened his banking app. He tapped furiously.
Simone’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out. Transfer received. £5 million. She looked at Victor and nodded. Good, Victor said. Now get out of my sight. If I ever see you in London or Bgrade or anywhere on this earth, the police will be the least of your problems. Bruno released Donovan’s hand.
Donovan stumbled back, clutching his wrist and fled the room, a broken man. The door slammed shut. Silence returned to sweet 400. Victor exhaled a long, shuddering breath. He slumped back into his chair. “We did it,” he whispered. Simone stood there clutching her phone. The money was real. The confession was real.
The weight that had been crushingher family for 3 years was gone in an instant. She looked at Victor. He wasn’t the terrifying oligarch anymore. He was just a man who had helped her find justice. Thank you, she said, her voice cracking. Victor looked up. He smiled. And this time it reached his eyes. No, Simone. Thank you. You were perfect. But the story wasn’t over.
As they stood there in the moment of victory, the heavy oak doors to the suite didn’t just open. They were blown off their hinges. The explosion wasn’t a bomb. It was a breach charge. The heavy oak doors splintered inward, filling the luxury suite with a cloud of white dust and the acrid smell of cordite. Victor didn’t hesitate.
He tackled Simone, driving her to the floor behind the heavy mahogany conference table. just as automatic gunfire shredded the velvet curtains where they had been standing seconds before. “Stay down!” Victor roared, his voice barely audible over the ringing in Simone’s ears. Bruno, the silent giant, was already moving.
He flipped a heavy sofa onto its side to create a barricade, returning fire with a handgun he had drawn from a holster beneath his jacket. The consortium, Victor hissed, checking the magazine of a backup weapon he pulled from his ankle holster. They knew Donovan would fail. This is plan B. Simone pressed her cheek against the thick carpet.
Glass from the shattered windows rained down on them. She wasn’t a soldier. She was a waitress who knew how to balance five plates on one arm, not how to dodge bullets. But as she looked at Victor, blood trickling from a cut on his forehead, eyes scanning the room with calm, terrifying precision, she realized panic was a luxury she couldn’t afford.
The bedroom, Victor commanded. It has a reinforced door. We move on my signal. What about Bruno? Simone screamed as bullets chewed up the wood of the table above their heads. Bruno does his job. We do ours. Move. They scrambled across the floor, staying low, the air was thick with smoke. Simone coughed, her eyes stinging.
They reached the master bedroom. Victor shoved her inside and slammed the heavy door, locking the deadbolts just as a spray of bullets hammered against the other side. The room was silent compared to the chaos outside. Victor leaned against the door, breathing hard. He looked at Simone. Her expensive suit was torn, her knees were bleeding, and she was gripping the encrypted phone like a lifeline.
“Are we going to die?” she asked. Her voice was small but steady. Victor walked over to her. He cuped her face in his hands. “No, I do not die in hotels, and neither do you.” He walked to the bedside table and punched a code into a panel hidden behind a painting. A section of the wall slid open to reveal a panic room, or rather a weapons cache.
“Donovan thought I came to London to negotiate,” Victor said, pulling out a heavy tactical radio. “I came to London to hunt.” He keyed the mic. “Alpha 1 to ghost team. The trap is sprung. Execute.” From outside the window, the window on the 40th floor, Simone heard a new sound. The rhythmic thup thup swoop of rotors. A black helicopter rose into view, hovering ominously outside the shattered glass, but it wasn’t shooting at them.
Repelling lines dropped. Men in black tactical gear smashed through the remaining windows of the main suite, swinging into the room behind the mercenaries. The gunfire shifted. The attackers were now the defenders. Victor checked his watch. 3 minutes. My security team is better than theirs. He sat on the edge of the bed.
the adrenaline beginning to fade, leaving a heavy exhaustion. He looked at Simone. Really looked at her. You saved me twice, he said softly. Once with the wine, once with the contract. Why? Simone sat next to him. Because you listened to me. Nobody listens to the staff, Victor. To most people, we’re just furniture.
You saw me. Victor took her hand. His thumb traced the calluses on her palm, marks of hard work, of scrubbing floors and carrying trays. I see you, he whispered. And I see that you are wasted carrying plates. The shooting outside stopped. A heavy silence ranto fell. Then a knock on the bedroom door. Sir, it is clear the threats are neutralized.
Victor stood up. He straightened his tie, though it was cut in half. He offered his hand to Simone. Shall we go see the damage? One year later, the Kensington Grill was fully booked as always. The clatter of silverware and the hum of conversation filled the air. Preston Galloway, the manager, was sweating.
He was always sweating. But today was worse. He was terrified because the new owner was coming for an inspection. The rumor was that the new owner was a woman, a ruthless, exacting woman who knew every trick in the book because she had written half of them. The front doors opened. Preston rushed forward, a fake smile plastered on his face.
Welcome, madam. We have the best table reserved. He stopped. His jaw dropped. The woman walking in wasn’t wearing an apron. She was wearing a cream colored Kashmir coatover a designer dress. Her hair was down, glossy, and rich. She looked like a movie star, but Preston knew those eyes. Carter, he gasped. Simone.
Simone smiled. It was a cold, professional smile. Hello, Preston. Behind her walked Victor Vulov. He looked relaxed, happy. He had his hand on the small of her back. “Actually,” Victor said, his voice booming through the silent restaurant. “It is Mrs. Vulov, and she is not here for a table. Simone stepped forward.
She ran a finger along the dust on the matrae stand. She looked at the terrified staff, her old friends, who were looking at her with awe. I bought the building, Preston, Simone said calmly. Victor handled the negotiations, but the restaurant, that’s mine, Preston looked like he was going to faint. Yours? Yes, Simone said.
and we’re going to make some changes, starting with management.” She leaned in close to Preston. “You’re fired,” she whispered. “Get out.” Preston stammered, looked at Victor, who merely crossed his arms and grinned, and then fled the restaurant, his dignity and tatters. Simone turned to the staff, to Thomas, to Tiny the dishwasher who had peaked out from the kitchen, to the terrified new buses.
everyone else,” Simone announced, her voice warm and commanding. “Are you all just got a 20% raise, and nobody nobody is allowed to shout in my kitchen?” Cheers erupted. Real genuine cheers. Thomas was crying. Victor leaned down and kissed Simone on the cheek. “You are dangerous when you are in charge,” he murmured.
I had a good teacher, Simone replied, looking up at him. So, Victor asked, “What is on the menu tonight, boss?” Simone looked at the corner table, table one, where it all began. Tonight, she said, “We’re having the 1982 Petrus, and we’re going to drink it slowly. They walked through the dining room, not as guest and server, but as partners.
The waitress, who had switched languages, had not just served the tycoon. She had saved him. And in return, he had given her the one thing she had always deserved, but never had, the power to serve her own destiny. This story reminds us that intelligence and worth are often hidden in the places we least expect. Simone was invisible to the world, a servant, until she revealed her true self.
How many of us are hiding our true talents because we are afraid to speak up? How many opportunities have we missed because we judged someone by their uniform instead of their mind? Victor Volulov learned that the most valuable asset in the room wasn’t the contract or the money. It was the person who told him the truth.
