Chapter 4 - The Offer
Clara let out a delighted, ringing laugh from the booth. “Oh, I like her! Roman, she put you right in your place!”
Roman stared at Rebecca. For the first time in years, he was speechless. No one spoke to Roman Costa like that. Not his lieutenants, not his legal team, and certainly not a waitress in a five-dollar apron working a double shift at a greasy diner.
“Rebecca,” Clara called out softly, reaching her gloved hand across the table until her fingers brushed Rebecca’s wrist. “My son is overly protective because his father left him with too many responsibilities and too little patience. Please forgive him.”
Rebecca felt the warmth of Clara’s hand and softened slightly, stepping back from Roman. “It’s fine, Clara. But you should go home. It’s freezing outside, and your coat is damp.”
Roman watched the interaction with sharp, analytical intensity. He saw how his mother’s hand lingered on Rebecca’s arm. For months, Clara had refused every private nurse, every companion, and every security detail Roman had hired. She had thrown dishes at the last three caretakers, accusing them of spying on her or treating her like a child. Yet here she was, relaxed, listening, and leaning toward a girl she had met thirty minutes ago.
Roman put the cash back into his pocket. He pulled out a sleek, black linen business card embossed with simple gold lettering: Costa Logistics — Roman Costa.
He laid the card on the table.
“My mother needs a companion,” Roman said, his voice measured, devoid of his earlier hostility. “Someone who understands how to treat her with respect, but who isn't afraid to keep her safe. The position pays three thousand dollars a week. Private living quarters, health coverage, and full autonomy over her schedule.”
Rebecca blinked, taking a step back. “What?”
“Three thousand a week,” Roman repeated.
“I’m a waitress,” Rebecca said, laughing dryly. “I wipe tables. I don't have a medical degree.”
“I don't need a nurse,” Roman said, looking her dead in the eye. “I have three doctors on retainer. I need someone who saw an old woman falling in the rain and stepped in front of a taxi to keep her dry.”
Gary from the kitchen chose that exact moment to yell from the pass-through window. “Rebecca! Table Two wants their bill! And clean up that mess in the aisle!”
May you like
Rebecca looked back at Gary, then down at the black business card sitting on the table, then at Clara, who was watching her with a hopeful, quiet expression.
“Think about it,” Roman said quietly, taking his mother’s arm with tender care and helping her out of the booth. “Call the number on the card before noon tomorrow.”
