Chapter 3 - Escalation of Cruelty
As the dinner service progressed, Bradley Wentworth’s behavior descended rapidly from routine corporate arrogance into open, vicious hostility. He was no longer just eating dinner; he was performing.
To men like Bradley, power was not simply about having wealth; it was about absolute dominance over every human being within his immediate line of sight. He needed his European investors to see him as an untouchable titan, a man who could command kings and subjugate commoners with a flick of his wrist.
And Isabella was the unfortunate prop he had selected for his performance.
When Isabella returned to Table Four carrying a silver tray with the first course—pan-seared sea scallops with a delicate citrus reduction—Bradley didn't even look at the food.
“What took you so long?” Bradley demanded, crossing his arms over his custom Tom Ford suit. “We’ve been sitting here for ten minutes staring at empty space. Time is money, sweetheart, and you’re wasting both.”
“I apologize for the brief delay, sir,” Isabella replied calmly, setting the plates down with meticulous precision. “The scallops were seared to order to ensure optimal texture.”
Bradley poked a scallop with his fork, turned it over, and scowled. “Overcooked. Look at the crust on this. It’s rubbery. Take it back. And bring me something I can actually eat without breaking a tooth.”
“Sir,” Isabella said, her voice remaining low, steady, and entirely polite, “our chef inspects every single plate personally. The sear is within our exact culinary standards. However, if you prefer, I can have the kitchen prepare a different appetizer for you.”
Bradley’s face flushed a mottled red. He hated being challenged, especially in front of clients. He slammed his fork down onto the porcelain plate with a sharp, violent crash that sent a piece of scallop flying onto the white linen tablecloth.
“Don’t talk back to me, you little immigrant nobody,” Bradley snapped, his voice rising in volume. “I didn’t ask for a debate. I asked for edible food. Now take this away before I call the manager and have you thrown out onto the street where you belong.”
The surrounding tables went completely silent. Several diners turned their heads away, pretending not to watch the ugly scene unfolding in the corner alcove. The executive assistant looked as though she wanted to crawl under the floorboards, while the European investors stared down at their wine glasses with profound, cringing discomfort.
Isabella didn't blink. She reached down, picked up the plate with steady hands, and placed it back on her tray.
“My apologies, Mr. Wentworth. I will inform the kitchen immediately.”
She walked away, her spine straight as a steel rod. But inside, the storm was gathering. This wasn't just about a bad customer anymore. This was a man revealing his fundamental rot to the world, high on his own misplaced sense of supremacy.
When Isabella returned a few minutes later with a replacement dish, Bradley decided to escalate his physical intimidation.
As she placed the new plate down, Bradley reached out with sudden, violent speed and seized Isabella by the wrist. His thick fingers clamped around her arm with a crushing grip, hard enough to leave deep red marks against her pale skin.
“Listen to me very carefully,” Bradley hissed, leaning across the table so his alcohol-laced breath washed over her face. “You have a terrible attitude. You probably don’t make in three months what I just spent on this champagne. So you’re going to smile, you’re going to keep your mouth shut, and you’re going to serve us like you’re actually getting paid for it. Do you understand me?”
Isabella looked down at his hand gripping her wrist. A cold, absolute stillness settled over her soul.
With a sudden, unexpected twist of her arm—a movement taught to her by her family’s private security detail in Italy—Isabella smoothly slipped out of his grasp, stepping back just far enough to make his hand clutch at empty air.
She didn't rub her wrist. She didn't cower. She simply looked him dead in the eye.
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“I assure you, Mr. Wentworth, my wrists are far more resilient than you think,” Isabella said, her voice carrying a chilling, razor-sharp edge that made Bradley pause for a fraction of a second. “Please, enjoy your meal.”
Bradley stared at her, momentarily disoriented by her lack of fear, before shaking off the eerie feeling and laughing loudly to cover his confusion. “See?” he barked at his investors. “You have to break them in early. That’s how you run a tight ship.”
