Chapter 458

Margaret Sinclair's hands trembled with barely contained fury. The porcelain bowl flew from her grasp, shattering against the marble floor in a thousand glittering pieces. Like a hurricane unleashed, she swept her arm across the table, sending cutlery and glassware crashing to the ground.

When the storm within her finally subsided, the damage was considerable. The commotion brought a young waitress rushing to the private dining room. Her professional smile faltered at the scene of destruction. "Madam, if there's anything we can do to assist you, please let us know. This kind of behavior really isn't necessary."

Margaret's lips curled into a sneer as she crossed her arms. "Must you be so dramatic? I'm a paying customer. What's a few broken dishes between friends?"

The waitress inhaled sharply through her nose, maintaining her composure. "Madam, I'm afraid we'll need to settle your bill immediately."

"What?" Margaret's perfectly sculpted eyebrows shot up. "You expect me to pay? That entire table was supposed to be covered by the foundation!"

"The other guests informed us it was separate checks. Between your meal and the damages, your total comes to three thousand dollars."

Margaret felt her blood pressure spike. "This is outrageous! I'll have you know—"

"Madam," the waitress interrupted coolly, "if you're experiencing temporary financial difficulties, we can arrange a payment plan. But the balance must be cleared within seventy-two hours."

Something inside Margaret snapped. Before she could stop herself, her palm connected sharply with the waitress's cheek. "How dare you imply I can't pay? Do I look like some common beggar to you?"

The waitress stumbled back, clutching her reddening cheek but maintaining her silence. With a final glare, Margaret threw down her platinum card. As she stormed out, she caught sight of the humiliated waitress kneeling to clean the mess.

The restaurant manager appeared moments later, placing a comforting hand on the young woman's shoulder. "Dry those tears, dear. We can't have customers seeing you like this."

"It's not fair," the waitress whispered, her voice thick with injustice. "I was just doing my job. Being wealthy doesn't give her the right to—"

"Enough!" The manager's voice turned sharp. "Do you have any idea who that was? Margaret Sinclair - philanthropist of the year, darling of Newport society. The governor himself presented her with the Humanitarian Award last month."

He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "She's taken in dozens of orphans and elderly. We overlook certain... eccentricities. Cross her, and you'll never work in this city again."

The waitress bit her lip hard enough to draw blood, her eyes burning with silent rebellion.

Outside, Margaret found herself walking straight into a downpour. She made no move to call a car or summon an umbrella, letting the rain soak through her designer dress. Part of her hoped she might collapse dramatically on the sidewalk - maybe even go viral, with all the blame falling on that insufferable Olivia Sinclair.

But her robust constitution betrayed her. Despite the cold rain pelting her skin, she felt annoyingly alert. The frustration built until she stamped her Louboutin-clad foot in a puddle.

Then she saw it.

A sleek Maybach idling at the traffic light down the block.

A slow, calculating smile spread across Margaret's face as an idea took shape. The perfect revenge was within reach. All she needed was the right moment.