“And you are very comfortable making assumptions for someone who knows so little about me.”

The table froze.

The interpreter looked between them.

“What did she say?”

Takamori did not answer.

Instead, he looked directly at Amara.

For the first time that evening, there was something almost human in his expression.

Surprise.

But it disappeared quickly.

“You attended university?” he asked in English.

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Columbia.”

One of the executives nearly choked on his drink.

Charles, who had been watching from across the dining room, suddenly looked as though he wanted to disappear into the floor.

Takamori studied her.

“Columbia University?”

“That’s usually what people mean when they say Columbia.”

The American executive covered his mouth to hide another laugh.

Takamori ignored him.

“What did you study?”

“International business and Japanese language.”

“And yet you work here.”

Amara placed the last plate on the table.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

There it was.

The question.

Why would someone educated, multilingual, and clearly capable be carrying plates?

Amara could have told him everything.

She could have described her father lying in a hospital bed.

She could have told him about spending nights translating documents online for extra money.

She could have explained that her younger brother Malik had nearly dropped out of school.

She could have described every interview where someone had promised to “keep her résumé on file.”

Instead, she simply said, “Because sometimes life does not follow the schedule you planned.”

Takamori looked at her for a long moment.

Then he nodded once.

“You are correct.”

Amara turned away.

But he was not finished.

“Miss Bennett.”

She stopped.

“I would like to change my order.”

She faced him.

“Of course.”

Takamori spoke rapidly in Japanese again.

This time the words were different.

He asked for modifications that the kitchen could not easily accommodate. He requested ingredients not listed on the menu. He described a dish inspired by a restaurant in Kyoto.

It was not an order.

It was a trap.

Amara knew exactly what he was doing.

He wanted her to fail.

The interpreter began translating, but Takamori lifted his hand.

“No.”

He looked at Amara.

“Let us see if she understands.”

Amara remained silent until he finished.

Then she smiled.

“I’m afraid we don’t have yuzu kosho tonight.”

The billionaire blinked.

“But the chef can prepare the sea bass with a citrus reduction. It won’t be the same as the dish you described, but it will be closer to the flavor profile you’re looking for.”

The interpreter stared at her.

Amara continued.

“And since you mentioned the restaurant in Gion, I assume you’re referring to Chef Matsuda’s preparation. He used white miso, not red.”

Kenji Takamori slowly placed his menu on the table.

The room around them continued moving.

Glasses clinked.

Forks touched porcelain.

A woman at another table laughed.

But at table seven, no one moved.

“How do you know that restaurant?” Takamori asked.

Amara’s expression softened.

“My professor took us there during a study program.”

“You studied in Kyoto?”

“For six months.”

Takamori looked away.

For the first time, Amara saw something she had not expected.

Regret.

Then his phone rang.

He glanced at the screen and his face changed.

The confidence vanished.

The interpreter leaned toward him.

“Is everything all right?”

Takamori stood.

“I must take this.”

He walked toward a private corner of the restaurant.

The executives began whispering.

Amara picked up an empty plate.

Then the American executive looked at her.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I think you just became the most interesting part of his evening.”

Amara gave him a polite smile.

“I’ll add that to my résumé.”

But as she walked away, she glanced toward Takamori.

He was speaking quickly into his phone.

And even from across the room, Amara could tell that something had gone terribly wrong.

Kenji Takamori returned to the table twenty minutes later.

His face had become a mask again.

But Amara had noticed the tension in his shoulders.

Whatever phone call he had received, it was serious.

She served the main course without comment.

For several minutes, the table remained quiet.

Then Takamori spoke.

“Miss Bennett.”

“Yes?”

“Sit.”

Amara looked at the empty chair beside him.

“I’m working.”

“Five minutes.”

Charles immediately appeared from nowhere.

“Amara?”

She looked at her manager.

Takamori did not ask again.

Charles forced a smile.

“Take five minutes.”

Amara slowly sat.

The other executives looked amused.

She did not.

“What is this about?” she asked.

Takamori folded his hands.

“My company has a problem.”

Amara laughed.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“You may be able to help.”

That surprised her.

“I’m a waitress.”

“So you keep reminding me.”

The words were sharper than he intended.

Amara stood.

“Then perhaps you should ask one.”

Takamori looked at her.

For a moment, she expected him to become angry.

Instead, he sighed.

It was a small sound.

But it changed everything.

“My daughter is in trouble,” he said.

Amara sat again.

The executives suddenly became very interested in their food.

“What kind of trouble?”