They had wanted to see how much disrespect she would tolerate.
And they had discovered that the people around her were willing to let them try.
"What's going on here?"
The voice came from behind the counter.
Martin Voss, the restaurant manager, hurried across the dining room.
He was forty-six, wore a navy suit that always seemed one size too small, and carried himself with the nervous authority of a man who believed management meant making employees obey him.
He had been watching the incident from near the register.
He had seen the cup fly.
He had seen the soda hit Talia.
He had heard the laughter.
Yet his first concern was not the employee standing in front of him.
It was the customers.
"What happened?" he demanded.
Brandon leaned back.
"Nothing, man. We were having fun."
Martin glanced at Talia.
Then at the puddle on the floor.
Then at the customers.
His expression tightened.
"Talia, what are you doing?"
She stared at him.
"What do you mean?"
"Look at this mess."
For a moment, she thought she had misunderstood.
"Someone threw a drink at me."
Martin sighed.
"Okay, but the floor still needs cleaning."
Brandon chuckled.
"See? Even your manager knows what matters."
Talia felt something inside her chest tighten.
She had expected Martin to ask whether she was hurt.
She had expected him to tell the customers to stop.
She had expected, at the very least, for him to acknowledge what had happened.
Instead, he handed her a cleaning cloth.
"Take care of it before somebody slips."
She looked at the cloth.
Then at him.
"Martin, I need a minute to clean myself up."
He frowned.
"You can do that after you handle the floor."
"My shirt is soaked."
"Then go change during your break."
"My break isn't for another two hours."
Martin lowered his voice.
"Don't make this difficult."
Those five words carried more weight than he intended.
Don't make this difficult.
Talia had heard them before.
When she requested a schedule adjustment because her mother needed transportation to a medical appointment.
When she questioned why another employee received better shifts despite having less seniority.
When she reported that a customer had made inappropriate comments about her appearance.
When she asked why she was expected to cover two sections while another server spent half the shift talking near the kitchen.
Don't make this difficult.
It was always easier for Martin to silence the person reporting a problem than to confront the person causing it.
Talia slowly placed her notepad on a nearby table.
"I'm not cleaning this up until someone addresses what happened."
Martin stared at her.
"What did you just say?"
"You heard me."
His face darkened.
"Watch your attitude."
Brandon raised his glass.
"Careful, Talia. You might lose your job."
His friends laughed again.
Talia turned toward them.
"Please stop."
"Stop what?"
"Harassing me."
Brandon tilted his head.
"Harassing you? You people really use that word for everything now."
A woman at the next table shifted uncomfortably.
Her husband whispered something to her, but neither spoke up.
Martin stepped between Talia and the customers.
"That's enough. Talia, go to the kitchen."
She looked at him.
"Why am I the one being sent away?"
"Because you're creating a scene."
The words landed harder than she expected.
Creating a scene.
She was the person covered in soda.
She was the one who had been humiliated.
Yet somehow, she was the problem.
Talia looked around the restaurant.
She saw the dishwasher, Marcus, standing near the kitchen entrance. He had worked at Ridgeview for almost a year and had always been kind to her.
He looked down.
She saw Denise, another server, holding a tray against her chest. Denise's expression was sympathetic, but she remained silent.
She saw the young hostess, Emily, standing near the front desk.
Emily looked frightened.
And she saw Brandon and his friends smiling.
Talia felt her throat tighten.
She wanted to say something.
She wanted to tell everyone exactly what she thought of them.
But the words would not come.
Instead, she picked up the cleaning cloth.
Not because she believed Martin was right.
Not because she accepted the humiliation.
But because she had learned that sometimes surviving a moment required more strength than winning an argument.
She crouched and began wiping the floor.
A few customers looked away.
Brandon leaned toward his friends.
"That's better."
And then the front door opened.
The small bell above it rang once.
A man stepped inside.
He wore a charcoal-gray suit, a white shirt, and a dark overcoat. His hair was neatly trimmed, and his shoes were polished without looking unnecessarily expensive.