Miles stared at the screen.
Celeste tapped the order in. “One dry extra-hot cappuccino with cinnamon.”
Bianca tilted her head. “And?”
Celeste looked at her.
Bianca touched her own cheek with one manicured finger. “Smile. I asked nicely.”
Damon chuckled under his breath.
That was the first note Celeste made without writing anything down.
Damon was not merely tolerating Bianca.
He was enjoying the room’s discomfort.
Celeste gave Bianca a calm, small smile. “Your drink will be ready shortly.”
Bianca’s eyes narrowed. She had wanted obedience, not composure.
Celeste turned to the machine.
Her hands were steady.
They had signed acquisitions under hostile conditions. They had opened factories in three countries. They had held her father’s hand in a hospital room while the doctors said there was nothing more to do.
They could make a cappuccino for a cruel woman.
While Celeste worked, Bianca drifted toward the pastry display.
“Are those gluten-free?” she asked.
Miles cleared his throat. “The lemon squares are, yes.”
Bianca lifted one brow. “I wasn’t speaking to you.”
Miles went silent.
Celeste placed Bianca’s cappuccino on the counter. “Here you are.”
Bianca picked it up, sniffed it, and grimaced.
“This is wrong.”
Celeste kept her voice even. “What would you like adjusted?”
“It tastes like resentment.”
Someone near the pickup area coughed into their sleeve.
Damon smiled at his phone.
Celeste said, “I can remake it.”
“You can do more than remake it.” Bianca leaned closer. Her perfume was sharp and floral. “You can try caring. This tower is filled with people doing real work. The least you can do is make coffee correctly.”
The words landed harder than they should have, because they were not just Bianca’s words.
They belonged to the culture Celeste had come downstairs to inspect.
Bianca had simply said them out loud.
Behind Celeste, Miles whispered, “I can make it, Claire.”
“No,” Celeste said softly. “I’ve got it.”
Bianca smiled with satisfaction.
Damon finally looked up. “Don’t take it personally,” he told Celeste. “She has high standards.”
Celeste looked at him.
Six years ago, Damon had sat in her office and told her his leadership philosophy was simple: raise the bar, protect the people trying to reach it.
Now he stood beside a woman humiliating a barista for sport and called it standards.
“I understand,” Celeste said.
And she did.
Better than he knew.
She remade the drink. This time Bianca watched every movement as if supervising a servant in an old movie.
“Where did you work before this?” Bianca asked.
“Several places.”
“That explains the vagueness.” Bianca turned to Damon. “Do they train them here?”
Damon slipped his phone into his pocket. “The café is outsourced.”
It was not.
Celeste had brought the café in-house two years ago after discovering that contracted staff had been underpaid by a previous vendor.
Damon should have known that. He had signed the transition memo.
But people who considered workers beneath them rarely remembered systems that protected those workers.
Celeste placed the second cappuccino down.
Bianca took one sip.
A long silence followed.
Then she said, “Better.”
Miles breathed again.
Bianca turned away, then paused and looked back at Celeste. “There. See? You improved when corrected. That’s the attitude you should lead with.”
Damon put a hand at Bianca’s waist and guided her toward the elevators.
As they left, Celeste saw a custodian near the lobby column watching them.
His name was Arthur Bell.
Sixty-one years old. Night-shift supervisor on paper, though his badge still listed him as general maintenance. Former operations foreman at a rail depot. Three commendations. Two denied promotion applications. One HR note describing him as “reliable but not leadership-facing.”
He had been one of the reasons Celeste came downstairs.
Arthur met Celeste’s eyes for one brief second.
He did not know who she was.
But he knew what had happened.
Later, during the lull before lunch, Miles leaned close while restocking straws.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“For what?”
“For not saying anything.”
Celeste wiped the counter. “Why didn’t you?”
He swallowed. “Because he’s Damon Voss.”
“And?”
“And I’m on a temporary contract.”
There it was.
The simplest explanation for most corporate silence.
Not cowardice.
Math.
A person measured their rent, their insurance, their student debt, their probationary status, their sick mother, their child’s school fees, and decided dignity was expensive.
Celeste wrote in her notebook.
Fear travels downward faster than policy travels upward.
At 6:30 that evening, Celeste stood in her real office on the forty-seventh floor.
The room faced the river. Rain scratched silver lines down the glass. Far below, the café had closed, its lights dimmed except for the glow above the espresso machine.