Waiter Poisons the Drink of His Evil Boss, Sees that His Daughter is About to Drink It – Story of the Day

"Even a dog won't touch this steak. Bring me another!" a rude boss tosses his steak back at the waiter, a young man named Jamie. Jamie decided it was high time his boss stopped mocking him. He adds a 'special' ingredient to the ribeye that wasn't listed on the menu and serves it to his boss.

The silver platters clinked like celebratory chimes, bouncing off the high, gilded ceiling and scattering amongst the laughter of well-dressed diners. Everyone except Jamie seemed to be dancing on the edge of a champagne bubble.

The polished smile on his face was heavier than the loaded trays he balanced precariously. Today was payday for everyone, but 24-year-old Jamie was the least excited.

He was worried that his boss would deduct his pay by almost half again this month, as he had been doing for the last two years. This month, Jamie needed his full salary more than ever to pay for his sick grandma's treatment, so big deductions would mean huge trouble.

"Two medium-rares, Monsieur Rousseau," he announced, his voice a practiced tune amidst the symphony of cutlery and conversation. Rousseau, a portly man in a pinstriped suit, barely glanced up from his phone, grumbling something about the sauce.

Jamie swallowed the sting of the dismissal, a familiar bitterness coating his tongue. He was used to dealing with the coldest guests in his two years as a waiter in this elite 5-star restaurant…

As he retreated, a wave of forced joviality from his colleagues, Sarah and Marco, washed over him. "Did you see Madame Dupont's face when you tripped over her poodle? Priceless!" Marco guffawed, but the merriment didn't reach Jamie's eyes.

He just nodded, the phantom ache in his gut twisting with envy. His friends and other colleagues had their indulgences, weekend trips, and laughter untainted by worry. His laughter was a carefully curated performance, held together by fraying hope and the desperate need to keep his job.

The air shimmered in the heat lamps, twisting the scent of truffle oil and lilies into a heady haze. In the back corner, Mr. Russell, the owner of the restaurant, a man whose smile never reached his eyes, beckoned him. Jamie's stomach clenched.

"Yes, Mr. Russell," he nervously greeted.

The boss leaned in, his cologne stinging the back of Jamie's throat. "Another complaint, Jamie. Broken wineglass, table five. Fifty dollars deducted from your pay this month."

"Fifty dollars?" Jamie gasped. Hope crumpled in his chest like a discarded napkin. His sick grandma and her mounting hospital bill flashed before his eyes. Forcing a smile, Jamie protested. "But Mr. Russell, I—"

"Don't argue, boy. Unsatisfactory service again. Can't keep a job, can't keep a glass unbroken. Pathetic. In two years, you've caused us nothing but damage. I think it's high time I fired you!" Mr. Russell barked, each word a blow to Jamie's already bruised pride.

"Sir, please make an exception this time," Jamie pleaded. "My grandma, she's... she's ill. I need the money. Please."

"Your personal issues aren't my concern, Jamie. Now get back to work," Mr. Russell raised an eyebrow and spat.

Jamie stood frozen, the weight of the room pressing down on him. "Please," he repeated, his voice a husky whisper. "My grandma needs the money. Just this once."

But his boss was not in the mood to buy his excuses and stormed away to the main dining area to greet the guests, leaving Jamie grounded with embarrassment and a bunch of colleagues laughing at him.

"Mr. Russell, please reconsider your decision. I want my paycheck today...with full pay," Jamie ran after his boss.

"Did you say...the paycheck?" Mr. Russell hissed.

"Yes, Sir. The full amount, please. For my grandmother's treatment," Jamie said, his tone confident and eyes desperate. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. He could see Mr. Russell's brows arching with a twist of frustration.

"The audacity!" Mr. Russell boomed, his voice shattering the fragile silence. "You, a nobody whom we took in, fed, housed, and still you dare demand your full pay? After your incompetence and clumsiness? You break a glass, you cost us money, and then you expect sympathy?"

His words lashed out like barbed whips, each syllable stinging deeper than the phantom ache in Jamie's gut. The heat of shame rose to his cheeks as Mr. Russell continued to brand him before the entire restaurant. He looked around, and his eyes met the judgmental gazes of his colleagues.

"It wasn't intentional, Sir," Jamie stammered. "And I apologize. I'll make up for it in the coming few months. But this month, my grandma, she's—"

"Not my concern, boy!" Mr. Russell roared. "You live rent-free in our quarters, eat free food, and still can't manage the simplest tasks? And what is this place, a playground for your sob stories? Do you think I'm an old fool you can easily cheat? What an ungrateful charity case!"

A wave of humiliation washed over Jamie, drowning out the diners' murmurs and the cutlery clinking. He was nothing but a beggar in Mr. Russell's eyes.

His hands balled into fists, the nails digging into his palms. The anger, simmering beneath the surface for months, erupted. "It's not charity, Sir," he spat back. "It's a job. A job I do sincerely and well, even with your constant deductions and insults. A job that allows me to afford my—"

His voice broke again, the image of his grandma, frail and fading, swallowing the rest of his words. Jamie's gut churned with fear. With a boulder of responsibilities mounted on his shoulders, he feared losing his job for confronting his boss.

"Remember your place, Jamie. You are here on my terms, at my mercy. Now, get back to work before I find a replacement who knows the meaning of gratitude," Mr. Russell barked.

"I...I'm sorry, Mr. Russell," Jamie bowed his head and hurried back to the kitchen. The prying eyes of his peers raked over him. They whispered things behind his back.

But nobody dared to talk to Jamie in front of their boss to avoid falling in his lousy light, especially on a day that marked Maple Fork's celebratory silver jubilee year.

Jamie clenched his jaws as he set the table for another guest. The roar of Mr. Russell's words still echoed in his ears. He forced a smile onto his face as he approached a table of three women and recited the specials on the menu.

"And for the main course, ladies, we have our signature roasted pheasant..."

"Oh, darling, pheasant? Isn't that a bit... barbaric?" One of the women, perched on a velvet stool, wrinkled her nose with exaggerated distaste.

Jamie swallowed the retort that burned on his tongue. "Not at all, Ma'am," he said, the smile stretching painfully. "The birds are ethically sourced, free-range..."

"Just bring us the salmon," another woman interrupted, barely glancing at the menu. "Medium-rare, and hold the dill. It gives me gas."

He scribbled the order into his notepad, the pen shaking slightly. This wasn't his usual clientele, the boisterous businessmen and tipsy couples who treated him like an extension of the polished marble floor. These were women who saw servers as invisible fixtures, their every whim an entitlement.

As he retreated, a voice from behind the bar caught his ear. Marco, his colleague, usually overflowing with jovial banter, watched him with a concerned frown.

"Rough night, mate?" Marco asked.

"Just another day in paradise," Jamie shrugged, the feigned nonchalance grating on his ears.

"Paradise? You sure you haven't been drinking the leftover champagne?"

"Russell chewed me out again. Accused me of breaking things and taking advantage of his...hospitality," Jamie sighed.

"That old bat," Marco muttered, slamming a glass down with a satisfying clink. "He wouldn't know gratitude if it bit him in the..."

"Don't get fired on my account, Marco!" Jamie chuckled.

"He can try," Marco grinned, his eyes glinting with mischief. "But we gotta look after each other, eh? Now go get that salmon before another of these princesses complains!"

Jamie shook his head and hurried back to the kitchen.

Just as Jamie finished serving the three ladies and returned to join the other staff for the celebratory evening, Mr. Russell strutted through the dimly lit staff room.

"Sarah, my starlet!" he boomed, draping a silk scarf around a waitress's shoulders. "Another record night. This bonus practically buys you a new pair of Louboutins, eh?"

"Oh, Mr. Russell, you flatter me! But it's all thanks to the team, right guys?" Sarah, all sunshine and collagen, preened under the artificial light.

"Hear, hear! To Team Fabulous and bottomless mimosas!" Perched on a counter in a mock-regal pose, Marco raised his chipped coffee mug.

Laughter washed over the room, a tide that purposefully bypassed Jamie. He leaned against the wall, the ghost of a smile pasted on his face. Each clink of glass felt like a coin dropping into a pit he could never climb out of.

Mr. Russell's smile, however, faltered when his gaze landed on Jamie. The air grew thick with unspoken tension. Then, with a theatrical cough, he cleared his throat.

"Now, now," he drawled, "we mustn't forget our... less stellar performers. Jamie, my boy, you'd be a shoo-in if we had a 'worst waiter' award!"

A ripple of giggles spread through the room. Jamie felt a familiar heat crawl up his neck, but it wasn't just shame this time.

He clenched his fists, the sharp bite of nails digging into flesh. He wished he could bash his boss in the face and throw away his waiter attire. But Jamie knew he had to keep this job...no matter what.

"Actually, Sir," he said, his voice surprisingly steady, "I believe my numbers are just fine. Perhaps my... contributions didn't cost the restaurant a broken bottle of expensive Merlot like Sarah's last week!"

"Contributions?" Mr. Russell spat. "Like what? Charming the pigeons in the alley with your broken French? Or practicing your interpretive dance routines on the slippery kitchen floor? And you call that the 'moonwalk', eh?! MJ, bless his soul, should've been alive to see that!"

This time, the laugh that followed was harsher, but Jamie held his ground. He met Mr. Russell's gaze, unflinching, the spark of defiance brighter than ever.

"Perhaps, Sir," he said, his voice low but firm, "my contribution is simply this—reminding you that even in a place like this, dignity isn't served on a silver platter."

"We'll see about that, Jamie," Mr. Russell burst into a giddy chuckle. "We'll see about that. But again, this year, my boy, you ain't getting any bonus!"

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your wonderful service. Enjoy the evening!" Mr. Russell said and stormed out of the staff room, staring daggers at Jamie.

Jamie was left alone, the silence amplified by the clinking champagne glasses and the distant hum of laughter as his colleagues discussed extravagant weekends and movie nights.

A bitter smile twisted his lips. Contributions, huh? Well, I'll show Mr. Russell what a contribution looks like.

"Don't let him get to you, mate. He's all bark and no bite," Marco patted Jamie's shoulder.

"He can bite my paycheque hard enough," Jamie muttered, shoving a tray of dirty plates onto a cart. Just then, a new announcement cracked through the chatter. Mr. Russell's booming voice filled the room, sending a shiver down Jamie's spine.

"Well, I forgot something! To celebrate this record-breaking night, I'm hosting a private dinner for my family right here tonight! And who better to serve them than our very own... Jamie!"

Jamie paused, letting the weight of his name hang in the air like a foul odor. Then, with a smirk, Mr. Russell added, "Consider it a bonus, my boy. A chance to see what your contributions look like!"

The laughter that followed was cruel, like barbed arrows piercing Jamie's already ragged dignity. He stood frozen, the tray slipping from his numb fingers, shattering glass echoing his broken pride.

"See you tonight, Jamie," Mr. Russell purred, his eyes sparkling with malicious amusement. "Wear your fanciest apron. My wife and daughter wouldn't want to be served by a pathetic-looking waiter!"

Jamie stared at the void as Mr. Russell hurried away. His fists clenched, not with fear, but with a chilling certainty. This wouldn't break him. It would be his stage. It was his chance to show Mr. Russell, his family, and everyone what it meant to serve not just food but justice.

"Mr. Russell," he whispered to himself, his voice a low growl, "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Hours passed. And soon, it was time for Mr. Russell's much-awaited family dinner. The clinking of cutlery had faded, replaced by an oppressive silence that pulsed with Mr. Russell's impatience. He tapped his diamond-encrusted Rolex, his eyes glued to the kitchen door like a hawk eyeing its prey.

"Where the damn hell is my steak, boy?" Mr. Russell barked, his voice bouncing off the empty marble floor. "Grilled medium-rare isn't rocket science, you know!"

Jamie emerged from the kitchen, the aroma of charred meat clinging to him like a shield. He placed the sizzling plate before Mr. Russell, his face masking professional courtesy.

"Your ribeye, Sir, cooked to perfection, just as you requested!"

Mr. Russell speared a piece, the silver glinting under the dim lights. He chewed with ferocious efficiency, his face contorted in fury. Then, he slammed the fork down, sending tremors through the room.

"Cold!" he shrieked before tossing the steak on Jamie. "This is barely lukewarm! You call this service, you fool? You're the definition of incompetence. Even a dog won't touch this steak. Bring me another!"

His words stung, but Jamie held his ground. He knew this tantrum was not about the steak. It was about power, about reminding him of his place in Mr. Russell's gilded cage.

"Perhaps, Sir," he said, his voice low and controlled, "I'm sorry. I'll redo the steak for you…in five minutes."

Mr. Russell's eyes narrowed, his face a thundercloud. "Don't get clever with me, boy. One more slip-up, and you'll be scraping gum off the sidewalk, not serving filet mignon."

Jamie bowed his head and walked away to the kitchen. "What is it you said about my job earlier, Mr. Russell?" he whispered to himself, his smile razor-sharp. "Scraping by, serving the whims of those who think they hold all the cards."

He loomed over the plate of smoking hot steak and smiled before spitting on the meat and lathering his saliva onto the tender and juicy steak. "But tonight, Mr. Russell, the tables have turned. This isn't just about a steak. It's about respect, about dignity. I hope you like my special 'secret' ingredient!"

Jamie plated the sizzling steak, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Mr. Russell, impatient as ever, snatched the platter. "Took your sweet time, boy?" he grumbled, eyeing the steak suspiciously. "Hope it's not as undercooked as your usual service."

Jamie's jaw clenched, but he kept his smile plastered on. "Medium-rare, just how you requested, Sir. A dash of my grandmother's secret seasoning for good measure."

"Granny's secret, is it? Sounds more like someone's been practicing their interpretive dance on the kitchen floor again," Mr. Russell scoffed.

He stabbed the juicy steak with a fork, carefully ripped a piece, and shoved it into his mouth while Jamie watched, holding his breath.

Then, Mr. Russell paused. He chewed again, slowly, this time, a flicker of surprise dancing in his eyes. "Not bad," he muttered, grudgingly. "Ummmm…Not bad at all. This actually has… flavor. Rough around the edges, like you, boy, but with a surprising kick. Ummmm…delicious! What did you add?"

"Just a touch of salt and pepper, Sir," Jamie replied, his voice tight. "And… something else. Something special I can't tell you. But trust me...it's what added the magic to the dish!"

Mr. Russell leaned back, eyes glittering with amusement. "Ah, yes. Granny's magic touch! Well, tell her thanks from me. This could almost make me forget the pigeon I found nesting in your locker last week!"

Jamie's smile strained. Pigeon? Is Mr. Russell playing with me? Or is this his twisted way of acknowledging my defiance, a verbal slap on the wrist disguised as praise?

"Of course, Sir!" he replied, the words gritty on his tongue. "I'm glad you liked the steak. Anything to… satisfy your palate."

Minutes later, the clink of Mr. Russell's empty glass cut through the tense silence.

"Where's the damn wine, boy?" he yelled as his wife, Carla, and daughter, Maria, busily ate. "Or are you too busy practicing your juggling act with the cutlery to fetch a decent bottle?"

Jamie's knuckles grew white around the napkin, the memory of the disastrous day, of Mr. Russell's thunderous rage, burning fresh in his gut. He swallowed the retort that clawed at his throat, forcing a smile that felt like stale bread.

"Certainly, Sir," he replied. "Anything to ensure your… satisfaction."

He turned to leave, the weight of Mr. Russell's gaze like a physical blow on his back. He suddenly stopped when he heard a kind voice.

"Dad, please. Give the poor waiter a break," Maria chimed in, staring daggers at her father. "We were supposed to enjoy the dinner. Not mock a poor waiter."

"Poor waiter? Who? Jamie? Just reminding our resident duckling here to stay afloat," Mr. Russell chuckled.

"He did get you that extra-rare and juicy steak you craved, didn't he?" Maria retorted, her voice laced with an edge that had Mr. Russell blinking in surprise.

"Besides, it's hardly Jamie's fault every time, Dad. He's the only waiter here. It's not like he's got four pairs of hands or something! Stop bullying him. Let's enjoy the dinner, okay?"

Mr. Russell studied his daughter, his playful smirk morphing into a tight-lipped grimace. "Fine," he grumbled. "But another slip-up, boy, and you'll be swimming with the real ducks in the fountain, understand?"

"Crystal clear, Sir. Now, about that wine..." Jamie swallowed, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands as he headed to the bar to fetch the drink.

The crystal decanter glinted under the dim lights as Jamie poured two glasses of ruby red wine, his hands surprisingly steady.

Mr. Russell's laughter echoing in the empty eatery irked him. His boss's voice reminded him of the cruel taunts. Jamie's conscience grounded him, however he mustered himself to pull out a vial of white crystals of rat poison from his pocket.

Rat poison was perfect! As it happens, Jamie had bought it just that morning to take care of the rat problem outside his house.

Mr. Russell's insults, the sting of unpaid overtime, and the humiliation of spilled drinks—soared Jamie's fury. His mind warned him of the consequences. But his heart brimmed with vengeance.

He uncorked the wine, the scent of plums and oak swirling around him. It was the same vintage beauty Mr. Russell always ordered, the one he bragged about to his cronies while Jamie choked down watered-down Chianti. Tonight, the tables were turning.

Jamie emptied the toxic powdered crystals into each glass with a practiced hand and watched it as they dissolved, leaving behind a faint shimmer in the liquid. Exhaling a confident breath, he carefully picked up the tray and approached his boss's table.

"About time, boy," Mr. Russell grunted, a plume of smoke swirling around his head. "I was starting to think you'd taken a siesta with the Sommelier."

"Your usual Merlot, Sir," Jamie declared. "With a… touch of spice."

Mr. Russell raised an eyebrow, a hint of suspicion battling with amusement in his eyes. "Spice, eh? Boy, don't tell me you've taken up mixology in your spare time."

"Just a… family recipe," Jamie replied, the lie rolling off his tongue like well-aged cheese. "Something to spice things up tonight!"

"Always trying to impress, aren't you? Well, let's see if your alchemy can match your… juggling skills!" Mr. Russell chuckled.

He took a long sip, savoring the familiar taste of the wine. Then, his eyes widened. He swirled the glass, studying the faint shimmer, his amusement replaced by a flicker of intrigued silence.

"Interesting," he murmured, taking another cautious sip. "This… does have a weird kick. A subtle heat, like…"

He paused, searching for the right words. Jamie held his breath, the seconds stretching into an eternity. If Mr. Russell found out, it would end his career...and life.

"Like rebellion," Mr. Russell finally declared with a sardonic smile on his lips. "Like someone finally growing a backbone. Not bad, Jamie. Not bad at all."

"Carla, honey, cheers to another successful year!" he toasted with his wife as Jamie watched the couple sip the wine.

His heart slammed against his ribs. Was it working? Had he woven his anger and humiliation into the poisoned wine they were tasting? Jamie watched them chuckle after every sip they took.

"You're right, Arnie. This wine tastes... different," Mrs. Russell turned to her husband.

"That's just the Merlot, Ma'am," Jamie said, his heart pounding. "A taste you'll… never forget."

The ruby red liquid swirled in Mrs. Russell's crystal glass. It smelled divine, rich, and plummy, but a knot of unease twisted in her gut. She glanced at Jamie, his stiff, almost defiant stance at the other end of the room and then at her husband halfway through his glass, a satisfied leer spreading across his face.

"So, Maria," Mr. Russell boomed as he glanced up at his daughter. "what do you think? Jamie's outdoing himself tonight, eh?"

Maria forced a smile, her stomach churning. "It's… good," she managed. The casserole danced on her tongue, warm and flavorful. She refrained from having the wine. It reminded her of the bitter cough syrup she hated as a child.

"Good?" Mr. Russell scoffed. "It's exquisite! The boy finally learned to do something right."

Maria's smile faltered. "Dad, please," she pleaded. "Not in front of Jamie."

Mr. Russell waved dismissively, the cigar smoke forming a noxious halo around his head. "Don't be absurd, darling. He needs to hear it. A little positive reinforcement for a change. Maybe it would get him to do his job how it is meant to be done henceforth, eh!"

"This isn't about 'positive reinforcement,' is it? You just enjoy… showing off. I can see that, Dad!" Maria's eyes narrowed.

"This is about respect, Maria," Mr. Russell growled. "Respect for your father, who's worked his rear off to give you everything you have."

"And what exactly is that?" she retorted. "A gilded cage and a life dictated by your whims? Is that your idea of generosity, Dad?"

Mr. Russell slammed his fist on the table, the crystal goblets clinking in protest. "Don't you talk to me about whims, young lady! I sacrificed everything for you, everything! And this," he gestured vaguely around the room, "is all for you. To give you a future you wouldn't have dreamed of without me."

"A future where I'm going to be your best friend's daughter-in-law, paraded around for your business associates?" Maria's voice trembled. "Where my every move is monitored, my every decision questioned?"

"Because the world is a dangerous place, sweetheart," Mr. Russell hissed, making her skin crawl. "And you, my precious bird, are still so vulnerable. I just want to protect you."

"Protect me from what?" Maria pressed, her voice cracking. "From living? From making my own choices? From being anything other than your obedient little doll?"

"This is ridiculous," he muttered, pushing his chair back. "We're not having this conversation tonight. We're going to Walter's after dinner, and that's the end of it."

"No," Maria looked up. "I'm not going anywhere with you, Dad. Not tonight, not ever again. I don't want to marry Victor. I don't like him."

"Like him or not... he's gonna be your husband, you hear me? Don't push me, Maria. You know what I'm capable of," Mr. Russell scowled as he finished sipping the wine to the last drop.

"And I know what I'm capable of, too," Maria countered. "I'm not afraid of you anymore, Dad. I'm going to live my life, on my terms. And you can't stop me. I'm 23. Not some little girl in kindergarten bound by your rules."

Mr. Russell opened his mouth to speak, but before any words could come out, a sharp pain contorted his face. He clutched his throat, his eyes bulging with surprise and terror.

"Dad!" Maria cried, rushing to his side as he crumpled on the chair, gasping for breath.

The crimson carpet muted Jamie's footsteps as he emerged from behind. "No one is gonna listen to you, Mr. Russell. Or shall I just call you Arnold?" Jamie laughed. A tremor surged through the family, especially Mr. Russell.

"Jamie, what did you do?" Maria cried, patting her Dad's chest as Mr. Russell coughed.

"Just added a tad little lethal dose to the red wine. Just a little! But the effects are going to be mind-blowing!" Jamie showed Maria the empty vial.

"Y-You poisoned the drink?" Maria gasped as Jamie burst into a giddy chuckle and shrugged.

"You think anyone will believe you?" Mr. Russell barked through his wet coughs. "A waiter… poisoning his own boss? They'll laugh you out of town, boy. I know you more than yourself. You're only fit to break glasses... not murder!"

Jamie tilted his head, a slow, predatory smile curling his lips. "Maybe," he conceded. "But who will they trust, a desperate servant with nothing left to lose or a monster like you drowning in lies and secrets? One who preys on his vulnerable waiter's paycheck every month?"

"This... this is madness!" Mr. Russell spat, bile flecking his chin. "You're ruining everything... my business... my family... stop this madness, you fool."

"Your family? You mean Maria? The daughter you keep on a leash like a prized show dog? Don't worry, she's safe. Just a little shaken, that's all," Jamie scoffed.

He saw Mr. Russell's eyes widen in alarm, a flicker of something genuine—terror, perhaps—momentarily eclipsing the fury. "Maria..." he rasped, the word a choked plea.

But Jamie felt no sympathy. The years of stolen hours, the swallowed insults, and the humiliation that sat heavy in his gut demanded their due. He leaned in, his voice dripping with venom.

"Now, about my wages," Jamie hissed. "Those months of unpaid overtime, the disgusting threats, the way you treated me like I was less than dust… they all come at a price. Fifty grand, Mr. Russell. Cash. In an hour. Or the world gets to witness your funeral!"

"You think you can blackmail me... after this? Don't you realize what you've done?"

"I realize exactly what I've done, Sir," Jamie laughed, a storm raging within him. "I served you a dish you couldn't stomach, a taste of your own cruelty. And now, you get to swallow it whole. One hour is all you've got. Hurry up. Transfer the due and the fifty grand if you want to live."

"Fifty grand? Are you insane, boy? You think I'd crumble over a petty threat like that?" Mr. Russell held his chest. He still believed Jamie was joking around, threatening him for money.

"Petty?" Jamie snorted. "You call years of unpaid wages, stolen hours, and constant humiliation petty? This, Mr. Russell, is just the appetizer. And I'm sure your wife is experiencing discomfort like you!"

He dipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a small vial, its blue liquid catching the candlelight. "Luckily, I've brought you a little… incentive. This, my friend, is the antidote," Jamie chuckled.

"Jamie, what have you done? This is madness! What did you do to my father?" Maria hurried to Jamie.

Jamie took a step back, keeping the vial out of reach. "He'll be fine… as long as the money arrives in my account within the hour. Every tick of that clock adds a little… spice to the concoction."

Mr. Russell, gasping for breath, rasped, "You… you wouldn't dare…"

"Wouldn't I?" Jamie's smile was a shark's grin. "You seem to forget, Mr. Russell, I have nothing left to lose. My life has been one long humiliation, courtesy of you. This… this is just me returning the favor."

Fueled by desperation to save her parents, Maria lunged at Jamie, but he sidestepped her quickly.

"Don't make this worse, Maria," he warned. "Your parents' lives hang in the balance, and the price is fifty grand, cash. No transfers, no funny business. Just cold, hard cash. And not a breath to the police until the antidote is safely in their system."

"Please," Maria begged. "Jamie, there must be another way… please don't do this to my parents. They're all I've got. Please."

"There isn't," Jamie cut her off, his voice hardened by years of pent-up anger.

"This is how the game is played, Maria. And right now, I hold all the cards. Your father has tortured me like a toy in the hands of a barbaric kid. It's payback time."

"Give me the antidote, Jamie! Please!" Maria tried to grab the antidote from Jamie but in vain.

Jamie snatched the vial away, his fury a mirror of the fear twisting Mr. Russell's face. "Stay back, Maria!" he barked. "This isn't about you!"

"Until that money hits my account, nobody gets the antidote. Not your mother, not him. Nothing moves until this cage turns into my damn bank vault!"

His words, brutal and unforgiving, slammed into Maria like a physical blow. Her shoulders slumped, and she seemed clueless now. She looked at her parents struggle to breathe in their chairs. It was terrifying.

Snapping her tears away, she quickly grabbed her mother's half-empty Merlot glass. Her eyes darted between her father, gasping for breath like a beached fish, and Jamie, whose rage seemed to crackle in the air like static.

"Maria," her mother gasped. "Don't drink…"

But Maria, her gaze hardening with a desperation born of impossible choices, ignored her mother's plea. With a shaking hand, she held the glass, the crystal chilling against her skin.

"Maria, stop..." Jamie exclaimed in shock, his anger momentarily short-circuited by the unexpected move.

In one swift motion, Maria brought the glass to her lips and poured the remaining wine down her throat. The ruby red liquid burned like acid on her tongue.

She slammed the empty glass on the table and turned to Jamie. "If you truly loved me, Jamie," she cried, "you'd give me the antidote now. You'd choose me, not the money. Prove to me you're not just drowning in your own hate."

"Oh my God! Jamie and you were... dating?" Mr. Russell gasped, holding his burning chest in disbelief.

"Just give it to me," Maria extended her trembling hand for the antidote. "You don't want this, Jamie. This isn't you."

"Don't be a fool, Jamie," Mr. Russell rasped. "There's still time. Let the anger go. Your grandma wouldn't want to see you like this."

The mention of his grandma, the woman who haunted his every thought, sparked a flicker of rebellion. "She wouldn't want me to be weak!" Jamie spat, venom lacing his voice. "She wouldn't want me to recoil like a poor rat trapped in a corner. She wouldn't want me to live like a slave."

"Jamie, your grandma is going to be ashamed of you," Mr. Russell struggled to breathe as he spoke. "She struggled to raise you after your parents died."

"Enough! Not a word more, Arnold," Jamie barked. "You have only ten damn minutes to decide if you want to live... or die. All of you!"

The next minute, Jamie's phone let out a loud ping that shattered the stillness. "Finally! You've given me what I want!" a triumphant smile lit up his face as he pulled out his phone from his pocket.

Jamie's fist clenched around the phone, knuckles white against the cracked screen. $20. A slap in the face, a twisted joke. Jamie's fury erupted like a geyser at seeing the bank notification.

"Only twenty bucks?" he roared, veins pulsing red in his temples. "You think you can play me, huh? I'll show you... all of you!"

Jamie took the vial of antidote out of his pocket. A shaky laugh escaped his lips, bitter and laced with tears. "I spent days plotting... for twenty bucks? You think you can get away after stealing my hard-earned money? Pathetic."

"Your money has not gone anywhere, Jamie. I... I took it," Mr. Russell shakily revealed, holding up a hand. "I kept it safe. Like my first boss did for me, all those years ago when I didn't know the true value of money... when I used to spend money like water."

"Safe? You think stashing away my entire future was 'keeping it safe'? You turned my life into a lie! You ridiculed me every chance you got. You deprived me of the joy of enjoying my earnings when everybody around me laughed and celebrated," Jamie retorted.

"I wasn't lying, Jamie. I... I saw myself in you—the anger, the bitterness. I thought if I toughened you up, made you the way I was made, you wouldn't crumble like I did," Mr. Russell flinched, his eyes filled with pain.

His words were a sucker punch, landing a blow Jamie wasn't ready for.

"So you mirrored their abuse? Made me your pawn in some twisted game of redemption?" Jamie spat, his voice cracking.

Maria touched his arm, a silent plea in her eyes. "Jamie, please... give us the antidote."

"Spit it out, old man," Jamie fumed. "Where's the money? Give me back what you stole. Every dime."

"I can't, Jamie. I invested it, grew it for your future."

"My future?" Jamie scoffed, the bitterness staining his words like bile. "You snatched away my present, and you're talking about my future? Ridiculous. I want my money. Now."

"Jamie, please, give us the antidote. Don't do this..." Maria continued to beg.

"No," Jamie hissed. "I see it now. You're siding with your father. What happened to our love... all those promises you made? Did you forget you wanted to run away with me to Paris... to start our dream life together? What happened, Maria? Have you forgotten?"

"Jamie... no, please..." Maria pleaded, her voice choking with pain.

"Fine," Jamie spat. "Consider this one collateral damage. Time out."

The vial met the floor in a sickening explosion, the antidote shattering with a ghastly splash as Maria cried out.

"You monster!" she shrieked, tears painting streaks on her mascara-smudged face. "This is on you! We're dying… because of you!"

"You chose this. Remember that. Remember me one last time before you die," Jamie laughed as he watched Mr. Russell and his family slowly succumb to the poison.

Suddenly, sirens blared in the distance, shattering the deadened air. The glass window of the restaurant glowed blue and red as cops barged in with guns drawn.

"What's happening?" Jamie was paralyzed with shock. "Mr. Russell... what did you—"

Before he could finish, Mr. Russell coughed, a rattling wheeze that tore through the room. His hand, slick with sweat, gripped Maria's with surprising strength.

"Police," he mumbled, his voice a dry whisper. "I called them via my smartwatch… when you...were busy giving your monologue."

Jamie's hope shattered like a dropped mirror. Panic, cold and clammy, slithered down his spine. The officers surged closer, barking orders.

"Hands up! Don't move! Get on the ground, now!"

A gun barrel, cold and sharp, poked his spine. He flinched like a rabbit caught in headlights and slowly raised his hands.

"Jamie, why did you do this?" Maria cried as the paramedics hurried her and her parents to the hospital. Fortunately, they survived.

***

Several weeks passed.

Sunlight sliced through the barred window, painting golden stripes across the room. 86-year-old Mrs. Evans, frail but surprisingly fierce, adjusted her faded shawl as she answered the door of her humble cottage in the countryside.

"Mr. Russell," she said, breaking the silence. "What brings you back to my dreary den of lost memories?"

Mr. Russell smiled, a weary ache at the corners of his lips. "News, Mrs. Evans. And something that belongs to you."

He slipped a worn envelope onto the table, its contents rustling like whispers of the past. Mrs. Evans' knuckles whitened as she reached for it, her gaze locked on his.

"Jamie's wages," he confirmed, his voice soft. "He…decided they belonged with you."

A tremor passed through her hands, her eyes welling up with an unexpected tide. "He… he thought of me?"

"Every day," Mr. Russell apologetically replied. "He talked about your stories, your laugh… the way you made him believe in magic. A lot has changed in Jamie over these few months."

A single tear escaped, tracing a glistening path down Mrs. Evan's cheek. "And I… I failed him. Let him down, just like everyone else. I was sick... and a burden on his shoulders."

"No, Mrs. Evans," Mr. Russell countered. "You gave him life, love, a foundation even the darkest storm couldn't shake. He wouldn't be who he is without you. Consider Jamie is learning about life's reality in a much sterner environment."

"Will I see him again?" Mrs. Evans glanced up at Mr. Russell, her voice frail but hopeful.

"Soon, Mrs. Evans. He needs time, but he is walking closer to the light every day. And when he's ready… who knows, maybe my restaurant doors would still be open to him!"

And with that, Mr. Russell stepped out into the daylight, leaving behind the echoes of shared pain and the tentative flicker of a future where, perhaps, both grandmother and grandson could find their way back to the light.

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Staff at an elite restaurant refuse service to a disabled woman in a wheelchair. When she manages to get them to serve her, the rude staff continue to mock her. The tables turn when she makes them regret it. Here's the full story.

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