Chapter 8: The Confrontation
"Get that camera out of here," Chloe said firmly, stepping back behind the serving partition. "Trey, this is a private sanctuary for people in need. You can't film here."
"Oh, come on, Chloe, don't be like that!" Trey laughed, shoving his microphone over the stainless-steel counter. "Give the audience an exclusive! Are the potatoes as fake as your designer bags? Tell the fans how it feels to go from front-row Fashion Week to washing dishes for homeless people!"
The patrons began to look around in confusion and distress. A young mother covered her child’s face, turning away from the intrusive lenses.
Chloe felt a familiar surge of hot adrenaline—the old instinct to clap back, to make a scene, to perform for the camera and defend her vanity. But then she looked at Mr. Henderson, who had set his fork down, his hands trembling slightly at the sudden commotion.
Chloe took a slow, deep breath, letting the anger dissolve into quiet resolve.
"Trey," Chloe said, her voice steady, low, and completely calm. "These people came here for a meal and some peace. If you want to exploit someone, exploit me somewhere else. But you will not disrespect the people in this room."
"Or what?" Trey sneered, stepping closer. "You gonna call security? You’re a felon on probation, Chloe. You’re nobody."
"She may be on probation," a cold, authoritative voice rang out from the kitchen doorway, "but I own this building."
Eleanor Sterling walked into the dining hall.
She wasn't yelling, but the sheer gravity of her presence sucked all the air out of the room. Two burly St. Jude's staff members stepped up behind her, blocking the exits.
"You are trespassing on private property, violating the privacy rights of municipal shelter patrons, and operating unauthorized commercial recording equipment," Eleanor said, pulling out her phone and tapping the screen twice. "The metropolitan police have already been dispatched. You have exactly thirty seconds to pack your gear and leave, or I will ensure your production company faces every civil and criminal penalty available under state law."
Trey’s cocky smile faltered. He looked at Eleanor, recognized the absolute lack of fear in her eyes, and signaled his cameramen.
May you like
"Whatever," Trey muttered, backing toward the door. "This place is depressing anyway."
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