"Yet."

"Ever, if I can help it."

Something in his bright expression dimmed. "You should be happy. This is the best thing that ever happened to us."

She put her hand on the back of his neck. "Money can open a door, Marcus. Attention can slam one shut. But neither of them gets to tell us who we are. Understand?"

"We good," he said, grinning again — seventeen-year-olds recover fast. "But weather-wise, it is currently raining money, so."

She laughed despite herself. Technically true. The check was in her bag — a cashier's check Daniel had locked in the office safe till she decided. One hundred thousand dollars behind a combination lock while she poured coffee in pajamas. The surrealism had a physical texture, like humidity.

By nine her email was unusable. A talent agent. Two podcast producers. A New York morning show asking if she could "recreate the moment" — closed unread. A literary agent: we need your story. A streaming producer: "docuseries conversation." Her inbox, which yesterday held a bill reminder and a grocery coupon, now thought she was a brand.

She wrote no replies. Put the phone on Do Not Disturb for everyone but Marcus, Elena, and Daniel — then, needing ground under her feet, went to the restaurant.

The Meridian at ten was a different animal: sunlight slanting through bay windows, chairs upended on tables, the polish smell of Daniel's pre-shift routine. Elena was arranging silverware in back; when Naomi walked in, Elena stopped and did a curtsy so exaggerated Naomi had to cover her mouth.

"Your Majesty," Elena said. "The internet's waitress. The Mandarin Maestra. Shall I kiss the ring?"

"Touch me and I'll hit you with a bread basket."

Elena hugged her for real, fierce and warm. "You did good, girl. Two years I've told people you're the smartest person in this building and nobody believed me."

"They didn't need to."

"They do now." Elena searched her face. "You look tired."

"I slept fine. It's just —" Naomi gestured at everything. "I keep getting messages from people who want me to be a symbol. Yesterday I was invisible. Today I'm supposed to stand for something."

"You stood for something last night. That's why it went around." Elena held a wine glass to the light, checking for spots. "My abuela used to say: the wave lifts you or drowns you, but you don't choose the wave. You only choose how you swim."

Naomi took napkins and started folding, hands moving while her mind settled. "I don't want to be 'the waitress who got lucky.' Or 'the girl who humiliated a rich guy.' That's the clip. Fifteen seconds of somebody else's comeuppance."

"So tell the rest."

Naomi looked at her.

"I'm serious," Elena said. "This wave isn't going away because you ignore it. Either it defines you — the bet girl, remember her? — or you define it. You decide what it was about. And it wasn't about him."

The napkin was a perfect rectangle, corners sharp. She set it down, started another. Elena was right — she'd known it since 6:41, watching herself on a stranger's screen. The video wasn't her story. It was a door. She could walk through on her own terms, or spend a year being shrunk into a meme until that was all anyone remembered.

She wasn't going to let them.

"Daniel said Victor's lawyer called," Elena said quietly. "Twice this morning."

Naomi's hands stilled. "What about?"

"The payment. Daniel wouldn't say more — Victor's side wants to 'discuss the circumstances.'"

A lawyer's phrase. A weasel's phrase. Something cold and clear settled in Naomi's chest, replacing the morning fog. "Of course he does," she said. She folded the last napkin, edges aligned. Whatever came next — interviews, offers, lawsuits — she'd meet it the way she'd met table twelve: on her feet, in her own language, nothing to prove, everything to protect. "He's about to try to take it back."

Elena raised an eyebrow. "You sound like you're looking forward to it."

Naomi picked up the phone buzzing against her hip, and for the first time that morning didn't flinch. "I'm not," she said. "But I'm ready."

Outside, the bay glittered, indifferent and bright.

Chapter 12: Victor's Move

Victor Hale had not slept. He returned to the fact the way a man returns to a locked door, checking again and again, as if the outcome might change: no, he had not slept; yes, the night had happened; yes, the video had three million views.