A waiter pushed a serving cart over slowly, placing a fruit platter, a full tea set, and a three-tiered silver dessert stand on the table one by one. In a low voice, he said, "Enjoy."
Villiers gave a brief smile. "Thank you."
To him, the waitstaff were faceless; even though he saw them every day, he never remembered their appearances. But Lola was an exception. Perhaps it was her honey-colored skin, dark eyes like ink, or bright red lips—too distinctive to forget. Even though they had only met a few times, he still remembered her face.
Those who knew him understood he was someone who seemed warm on the outside but was cold on the inside—appearing gentle but actually hard to approach. He rarely involved himself in others' affairs, not even those of his own son, let alone those of strangers. Yet after meeting Lola, he had meddled in her affairs twice—once with Noah, and the other time, now.
Villiers spread the napkin over his lap, holding the cup and saucer with one hand, while using the thumb and index finger of his other hand to grip the handle, with his middle finger sliding down to rest against the side of the cup.The gesture was so intricate, yet he executed it with such natural grace, as if even the blood in his veins had been infused with the elegance of an 18th-century gentleman.
After finishing his tea, he placed the cup down with the handle perfectly aligned with the spoon. If Lola had been there to see this, she might have stopped doubting the book was fake—because there really were people who could perform those elaborate etiquettes so effortlessly.
However, his thoughts were not on the black tea. He hadn't added any sugar or milk; he was still thinking about Lola's expression a moment ago.
She was clearly being tough, clearly showing her displeasure, yet her teeth had instinctively bitten down on her soft lips, and a flicker of pain and struggle passed across her face, her eyes swelling with unshed tears.
He frowned slightly and propped his forehead up with one hand, feeling he might have interfered too much. Before he could reach out to stop her, she had already lowered her head and quickly exited the restaurant. When he turned to look, she was indeed standing outside, crying.
He let out a soft sigh.
Lola had no idea what Mr. L was thinking. She stood outside like a little beast defending its territory, confronting Tom, the man from last night. Animals puff up their fur or arch their backs to show strength, and Lola furrowed her brow and glared fiercely to make it clear she was not someone to be messed with. "If you keep pacing around here, I'll call the cops!"
Tom felt a headache just looking at Lola. This girl didn't follow the usual rules; she wasn't weak or easy to bully like the others. He had no idea how to handle her. After considering for a moment, he decided to skip the intimidation tactics and get straight to the point. "Mrs. Harris sent me to tell you that if you don't want to pay back the money, you'll have to do some work for her." He took a step back, just in case Lola decided to scratch him.
Mr. L was still inside the restaurant, so Lola had no plans to scratch him. She folded her arms and replied coldly, "I don't owe her any money. If she thinks she can get me to work for her for free, she can forget it."
Tom quickly said, "Of course not for free. If you do what she wants, you'll get a decent cut—guaranteed to be more than you make as a waitress."
Lola shook her head, utterly unimpressed. "I'm not interested."
Tom stared at her, tempted to slap her, but he remembered Mrs. Harris's warning not to use force on Lola—her face was too beautiful. In recent years, cosmetic surgery had become more popular, and there were more pretty girls, but a girl like Lola, whose beauty was natural and vibrant, was becoming rare. Her demeanor was quite crude, but her looks were strikingly stunning, especially her slightly upturned upper lip, reminiscent of the naive, wanton, voluptuous girls in Fragonard's paintings.
A girl like that should be kept in a golden house, surrounded by red roses and flashing lights, in an atmosphere of luxury and decadence. If she wanted, she could be the most successful socialite in the city, not just a waitress in a restaurant.
Tom tried reasoning with her, hoping she would willingly agree, but Lola remained cold and indifferent, refusing to budge. Finally, he lost his patience, tossed a set of keys on the ground, and said, "Tonight at seven, Holiday Hotel, Room 204, downtown. Show up, and you'll get fifty bucks; if you don't, I'll make sure everyone in this restaurant knows you're just a filthy little bitch."
Lola glared at him, wanting to scratch his face again or give him a kick straight to the crotch.
But she couldn't do either. Mr. L was still inside the restaurant, perhaps watching her right now—she didn't want him to see that she was such a rough and violent girl.
So, she could only glare at the man and growl, "Get lost!"
Tom had been eager to leave; hearing this, he disappeared without a trace.
As Lola watched him go, she felt a pang of regret—regret that she hadn't cursed him a few more times. She lowered her head, sulking for a moment, then thought of going back into the restaurant. After a moment's hesitation, she picked up the keys from the ground.
A colleague was already attending to Mr. L's table; she couldn't just butt in. The restaurant was quiet in the afternoon; Americans preferred coffee, beer, and soft drinks over the intricate rituals of English afternoon tea. Her colleagues were chatting among themselves; no one greeted her, and she didn't need them to. Lola walked over to a corner, slowly crouched down, and hugged her knees, lost in thought.
The man had said he would make sure everyone in the restaurant knew she was a filthy little bitch.
Last night, that woman had also called her a "whore's daughter" and said she was born a little bitch.
Before this, Lola had never thought of whores as inferior or that being one was immoral. In school, people often called her a "whore's daughter," but she never felt ashamed and would proudly retort, "I am a whore's daughter," leaving them speechless.
But after meeting Mr. L, she could no longer face her own background.
Bitch. B-i-t-c-h. The very sound of the word carried a sneer of contempt; it felt like every letter was filthy, shameful. Just thinking about how Mr. L might react if he knew about her background made her cheeks burn, and her palms and back were sticky with cold sweat, feeling as if she had been slapped.
What she feared most wasn't that Mr. L wouldn't like her; she had never dared to hope that someone like Mr. L could like her. What she feared most was losing the right to secretly admire him…
But whether it was Mrs. Harris, her lackeys, or the keys they'd thrown at her, they all seemed to be saying, "Give up. Someone like you will never be worthy of Mr. L. You are destined to be nothing more than a body-selling bitch."