The restaurant was just opening for the day. Spoons clinked, the smell of fried eggs and toast lingered in the air, and waitresses dragged their tired feet across the checkered floor.
Brooke leaned against the staff locker, carefully folding her apron as Shelly adjusted her hairnet beside her.
Carolyn burst through the kitchen doors, waving a slip of paper like it was Beyoncé's personal number.
"Brooke! Babe, someone left you this!" she squealed, shoving the note into her hand. "Some old man said it's for you—left it at table six!"
Brooke raised a brow and snatched the paper, scanning its neat handwriting. Her lips twitched. "Meet me after closing. I have something you might want to hear."
"Ohhh no, not the secret admirer sh*t again," Shelly groaned. "Girl, you pulling sugar daddies now?"
Brooke rolled her eyes, stuffing the paper into her pocket. "Y'all know the rules. No customer chit-chat outside their orders. Plus, I'm not about to play with my job for someone's grandpa."
"Okay but... what if this one's different?" Carolyn asked, a mischievous glint in her eye. "What if he's like one of those rich old men in the movies—'Pretty Woman' style?"
"I'll pass," Brooke muttered, walking away with her tray.
But that night, she sat by her mother's bedside, watching her tremble under her threadbare blanket. The bills on the table stared at her like ghosts. Medication costs. Rent. Electricity. Hope.
The next morning, she told her boss she needed the day off. He didn't even argue—just nodded like he'd already given up on her dreams.
Brooke bathed her mother, fed her warm porridge, and helped her into a cab to the clinic. Then, without a word to anyone, she took the same cab to the city, her worn sneakers clicking on the marble floors of The JOLMA, a restaurant that smelled of money and power.
He was there. Sharp grey suit, silver hair, and eyes that saw straight through her.
They talked for two hours. About life. About loss. About potential.
She told him about her mother. He told her she reminded him of his late Mom—smart, brave, and too broke for the world to notice.
He didn't make a move. He made a proposal.
The next day, Brooke floated into the eatery like the first breeze of harmattan. New jeans. Glossy lips. A smile that hid both everything and nothing.
Shelly caught it first. "Have you… won a lottery?" she asked, one eyebrow cocked.
Brooke chuckled, tying her apron like she hadn't just dined with someone who had more commas in their account than her whole street. "More than that."
Carolyn dropped her rag and leaned in. "Girl, don't play. You met him, didn't you?"
Brooke nodded slowly. "Yeah. Yesterday. We talked. About… a lot. My mom. My life."
Shelly's hands flailed. "And?! What's the plan?! What's the tea?! What about your parents?!"
Brooke looked at them both, her smile softening into something unreadable.
"He says he wants to help. That he has a plan. Something big. A chance," she said, voice trembling just slightly. "But I'm not sure what I'd have to leave behind."
The girls were quiet for a beat, then Carolyn grabbed her shoulders. "Brooke, if this is real,if it's not some creepy mess—this could change everything."
"I know," Brooke whispered. "But what if I take the leap… and it's just another fall?"
Shelly nodded. "Then we'll be right here to catch you."
Brooke blinked away the sting in her eyes and grinned. "You bitches better not drop me."
Carolyn laughed. "We got heels, not hands, but we'll try."
They all burst into laughter—loud, raw, real. But even as the sound filled the kitchen, Brooke's mind replayed the old man's final words:
"What I'm offering isn't charity, it's investment. In you. But you'll have to decide soon. Opportunity doesn't wait."