Chapter 3 - WHOSE POLICY?
Dennis Cole’s face instantly lost its color. His posture straightened so abruptly that the tray in his hands rattled against his vest. He set the metal tray down on the stainless-steel prep table with an awkward, clattering rush, scrambling to tie a quick knot in the top of the black garbage bag as if trying to hide the evidence of his actions.
"Mr. Hart!" Dennis stammered, his voice dropping an octave as panic tightened his chest. He cleared his throat repeatedly, adjusting his black vest with trembling fingers. "I... I didn't realize you were still on the service level, sir. We were just wrapping up the banquet tear-down."
Gabriel didn't answer immediately. He stood at the center of the kitchen aisle, his hands casually resting in the pockets of his tailored trousers. His presence seemed to shrink the massive industrial room, forcing every eye toward him.
"I asked you a question, Dennis," Gabriel said smoothly, his eyes narrowing slightly as he gestured toward the food racks. "That tray. You were about to dump it in the trash."
Dennis swallowed heavily, his eyes darting nervously toward the kitchen staff before returning to Gabriel's unblinking stare. "Yes, sir. It’s... well, it’s standard hotel policy. Health and safety regulations regarding banquet overage."
Gabriel tilted his head, stepping closer to the prep table. "Whose policy?"
Dennis blinked, thrown off balance by the question. "Pardon me, sir?"
"Whose policy?" Gabriel repeated, his voice dropping into a low, measured cadence that sent a chill through the room. "Is it a city ordinance? A state health mandate? Or a rule written in a staff handbook by someone sitting in an air-conditioned office who has never missed a meal in their life?"
Dennis’s throat worked helplessly. "It’s... it’s the hotel’s policy, Mr. Hart. Management enforces it strictly to prevent internal theft and liability."
Gabriel held Dennis’s terrified gaze for three agonizing seconds. The silence in the kitchen was total; even the hum of the ventilation hood seemed to fade.
"I own the hotel," Gabriel said softly.
The words were spoken without bravado, simply stated as an absolute, unassailable fact.
May you like
Maeve stood frozen beside her station, her face burning. The mortification of being caught in the middle of this high-stakes confrontation was almost unbearable. She clutched her canvas tote bag against her stomach, her knuckles white, feeling smaller and more exposed than she ever had in her life.
"It’s fine," Maeve blurted out suddenly, her voice shaking as she took a step backward toward the exit. "It’s completely fine, Mr. Hart. I... I shouldn't have asked. Please, don't trouble yourself."
