Chapter 5 - The Fallout on Michigan Avenue
Out on the cold, wind-swept pavement of Michigan Avenue, the autumn air was biting, but Gregory Holt felt as though he were burning alive from the inside out.
He paced back and forth near the curb, his navy suit jacket unbuttoned, his silk tie flapping wildly in the lake wind. His right hand was wrapped in a makeshift bandage where he had scraped his knuckles on the table when he slammed his wineglass down.
"She humiliated me," Holt snarled into his cellular phone, his voice shaking with incandescent rage. "In front of half the city's financial district! Do you know who was sitting at table four? Marcus Vance! The venture capitalist! He saw the whole thing!"
On the other end of the line, his lead PR consultant, a frazzled man named David who had been dragged out of bed at 9:00 PM, sighed heavily. "Greg, calm down. It’s an isolated incident at a restaurant. Just issue a statement denying—"
"Denying what? That a waitress spoke better Russian than I do?!" Holt screamed, his voice cracking so loudly that a passing pedestrian gave him a wide berth and hurried past. "She tore me apart in front of my own assistant! Nadia hasn't stopped smirking for twenty minutes!"
"Well, what do you want me to do?" David asked defensively. "Sue her? For what? Speaking a second language?"
Holt stopped pacing. His chest heaved as he stared across the broad avenue toward the glowing, elegant facade of the Meridian. Through the tall glass windows, he could see the warm amber light, the polished wood, and the comfortable murmur of guests enjoying their evening.
He could see Ted Ashworth pouring champagne for the couple at table four.
And right there, moving through the dining room with effortless grace, carrying a tablet instead of a notepad, was Briana Ellison.
She looked calm. She looked powerful. She looked like she owned the room.
Holt’s jaw clenched so hard his back teeth ached. The realization hit him with the force of a freight train: his money, his tailored suits, his corporate titles—none of it meant a damn thing when he stepped into a room where someone possessed real, unearned human dignity. He had spent his entire life believing that people could be categorized, dismissed, and silenced based on their uniforms.
Tonight, the uniform had bitten back.
"Greg? You still there?" David’s voice crackled through the phone speaker.
Holt lowered the phone slowly from his ear, his eyes fixed on the illuminated sign of the Meridian. The red neon letters buzzed softly against the Chicago night.
"Yeah," Holt whispered, the fight completely draining out of him, leaving only the hollow, bitter taste of defeat. "Yeah, I'm here. Cancel the PR team. Just... just send the car."
May you like
He hung up the phone, shoved it into his pocket, and turned his back on the restaurant, disappearing into the cold Chicago crowd like a ghost who had finally realized he was dead.
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