<b>Chapter </b>442
<b>Mandy’s </b>head was throbbing, and she couldn’t fathom how just stepping out of the restroom could lead to such a mess
<b>She </b>couldn’t let her high society friends get embarrassed over this debacle. Taking a deep breath. Mandy clutched her purse and confronted the restaurant manager with a stern voice, “Is this how you treat your customers? Why on earth would I bring my friends here if we hadn’t secured a reservation?”
She paused for effect, then continued, “I’ve never heard of a restaurant arbitrarily canceling a customer’s membership and then kicking them out. Do you really want me to call and lodge a formalint right now?”
The manager stered on a bureaucratically polite smile, oozing arrogance. “Please, be my guest.”
Mandy’s face turned a shade of steel, herposure slipping as anger took hold. She massaged her temples and was about to unleash a fierce retort, “Do you have any idea who we-”
But she stopped mid–sentence when she caught sight of Mirabe sitting by the window. Her jaw dropped. Wasn’t Mirabe supposed to be waitressing? Why was she sitting
there?
A flurry of questions swirled in Mandy’s mind. Then, her gaze shifted to the young man sitting across from Mirabe. Although she only saw his profile, he was unmistakably memorable. He was the Davis family’s sharp–tongued second son, awyer. She had encountered his biting wit when Summer had returned to the Gilbert family fold.
A sneer escaped Mandy’s lips as she pointed toward Mirabe and said, “Oh, the irony. Your establishment would rather cater to posers with empty pockets than to genuine patrons like us. Amusing, isn’t it?”
Following the direction of Mandy’s usatory finger, the manager nced over, took a mere two seconds to assess the situation, and then looked back at Mandy with a hint of something else in his gaze.
Mandy sensed mockery in his eyes. Frowning, she demanded, “What’s with that attitude?”
“You might as well stop wasting time here. Our restaurant will not be serving you <b>in </b><b>the </b>future. <b>That’s </b>final,” the manager said dismissively, then nced back towards Mirabe, <b>thinking </b>about presenting the after–dinner fruit. He walked away, leaving Mandy behind.
Outraged, Mandy <i>no </i>longer cared about appearances. She shouted, “Hold it <b>right </b>there! I demand a proper exnation, or this matter is <b>far </b>from over<b>!</b>”
The manager turned back around, his imposing frame and rugged features casting an
intimidating aura when devoid of emotion. Mandy flinched under his gaze<b>, </b><b>instinctively </b>
<b>1/2 </b>
<b>10:47 </b>
<b>stepping </b>back.
The manager smiled, his eyes once again settling on Mirabe as he spoke in a <b>tone </b>devoid of warmth, “Do you even know who they are<b>?</b><b>” </b>
Mandy’s brow furrowed, as she gripped her purse tighter, a sinking feeling that she might not want to hear the answer.
“That’s the owner’s daughter and son,” the manager stated tly, walking away.
The owner’s daughter and son…
The words echoed in Mandy’s ears, disbelief etched across her face.
How’s this possible?
How could a family living in a run–down neighborhood, driving a beat–up old car, possibly be connected to a restaurant under a global top 100 enterprise?
The manager must’ve been ying some kind of sick joke.