The Shocking Incident

Isabella Chen’s feet ached as she spent a grueling seven hours serving champagne at the Roosevelt Grand Ballroom, catering to New York City’s elite during a tech mogul’s charity auction. Despite her fatigue, her black uniform was immaculate, her hair styled in a tidy bun, and she wore a professional smile that concealed her exhaustion. At just twenty-six, she juggled three jobs to cover her younger sister’s medical expenses, and tonight’s event promised an additional three hundred dollars—money she desperately needed.

Table fourteen required attention. Six men, clad in suits worth more than her vehicle, boisterously drank and laughed, their raucous demeanor filled with arrogance. At the head of the table sat the infamous Preston Vale, the thirty-two-year-old CEO of Vale Technologies, a man known for his aggressive business tactics and equally aggressive nature. His wealth was estimated at eight hundred million dollars.

As Isabella approached, the champagne bottle carefully balanced in her hands, Mr. Vale, absorbed in his phone, carelessly extended his glass as though she were merely a piece of furniture, unnoticed and disregarded.

She poured the golden beverage cautiously, but a sudden joke from the table caused a hearty laugh that jolted the surface, sloshing champagne across Preston’s tailored suit, saturating his shirt and trousers, igniting his fury.

The room fell silent.

“Oh no! I’m so sorry!” Isabella exclaimed, immediately reaching for napkins. “Let me—”

“Do you realize what you’ve just done?” Preston bellowed, rising from his seat, his face flushed with rage. “That suit cost fifteen thousand dollars!”

As Isabella’s hands trembled in an attempt to clean up the mess, she stammered, “It was unintentional, sir. I’m sorry. I can fetch the manager; I’ll—”

“An accident?” Preston’s voice thundered across the room, silencing the orchestra and stilling conversations. Every eye was now on them. “You ruined fifteen thousand dollars worth of Italian wool because you couldn’t pour a drink properly!”

“I can—” she attempted to interject, but he cut her off, grabbing her wrist with a grip so tight it would leave marks. “You’ll pay for this. With what? Your tips?”

The men at the table erupted in laughter, phone cameras flickering as they recorded Isabella’s humiliation, tears stinging her eyes that she refused to let fall.

“I’ll cover the cleaning costs! I’ll pick up extra shifts!”

“You will do more than that,” he snarled, looking around. “Someone fetch me scissors. Right now!”

Isabella felt her heart plummet. “What?”

“Scissors! This waitress needs to be taught a lesson about respect!” Preston’s voice sliced through the crowd.

Though alarmed, a waiter hesitantly delivered a pair of scissors to Preston, his own hands trembling with anxiety. Preston seized the scissors while Isabella cried out, “No! Please! I’m so sorry! I’ll do anything!”

But it was too late for remorse. Grabbing a fistful of Isabella’s hair—the perfect style she had spent hours achieving—he yanked her head backward.

“Let’s see how beautiful you are without this.”

“Stop!” Isabella sobbed, but the crowd remained still, their eyes glued to the spectacle, recording her degradation.

Preston began to cut, while each piece of her hair fell to the floor like fallen leaves. Isabella felt each snip deeply, the loss of her dignity apparent as her long black hair transformed into uneven patches. Preston laughed, relishing the attention, the derision of the audience.

“There, was silence..