She resigned from Goldman Sachs that week, sold her apartment, moved back to Harlem, and she disappeared. That was 3 years ago. 3 Years of feeding her mother, bathing her, doing physical therapy exercises in their tiny living room. 3 Years of overnight shifts at diners, of rude customers and aching feet, and never enough sleep. Three years of watching her former classmates get promoted, get married, get everything she'd once dreamed of.
But Felicia never stopped studying. Every night after Ruth fell asleep, she would open her laptop, read earnings reports, analyze markets. It was the only thing that kept her sane, the only connection to the person she used to be. And then she got the job at the Meridian Club. At first, it was just about the money, better tips, wealthier clients, enough to cover her mother's medications, but then she started listening.
The men at these tables talked openly, arrogantly, as if the servers didn't exist. They discussed insider deals, manipulation schemes, fraud. Garrett Whitmore was the worst of them. Felicia began keeping notes, recording patterns, pulling public filings, and cross-referencing what she heard. 6 Months ago, she'd realized what Garrett was doing with Nexus Technologies.
3 Months ago, she'd found the evidence buried in SEC footnotes. One month ago, she'd made contact with a journalist named Sarah Wade from the New York Times. And today, today, Garrett Whitmore had handed her the opportunity she'd been waiting for. He'd asked her for financial advice, and she was finally going to give it to him. Felicia opened her eyes, pushed herself off the counter, and straightened her uniform.
Her hands weren't trembling anymore. She walked back out onto the floor. Derek caught her arm as she passed the kitchen door. "Are you crazy?" he whispered. "That's Garrett Whitmore.
He destroys people for fun. What are you doing? Felicia gently removed his hand. He asked for financial advice. I'm going to give it to him.
Felicia, cover my tables for 15 minutes, please. Derek stared at her like he was seeing a stranger, but he nodded. Felicia reached into her apron and pulled out a small notebook, worn, dogeared, filled with two years of observations. Then she pulled out several folded papers, printouts of SEC filings she'd downloaded that morning. She'd been carrying them for weeks, waiting for exactly this moment.
Felicia walked across the restaurant floor, not toward Garrett's table to serve, toward Garrett's table to present. The conversations around her faded. Diners looked up from their eggs benedict. Staff members froze mid pour. Garrett saw her coming and smirked, "Oh, look.
The financial adviser returns. He gestured grandly to his associates. Everyone pay attention. We're about to get educated. Scattered laughter.
Felicia stopped at the edge of the table. She didn't smile. Didn't flinch. When she spoke, her voice had changed. No longer the soft, differential tone of a server.
This was the voice she'd used in Goldman Sachs conference rooms. Mr. Whitmore, you asked for my advice. Let me give you a proper analysis. By all means.
Garrett leaned back, arms crossed. Enlighten us, sweetheart. Felicia ignored the condescension. She'd heard worse. Much worse.