Emma Frost caught the plate before it shattered. She was too late to stop the pasta.

The dining room went dead silent.

The camera lights cast harsh, yellow glares across the marble floor. The lead reporter, recognizing the high-drama potential of a scandal involving the Falcone name, signaled his cameraman to keep rolling.

“Miss Vain,” the reporter said, thrusting a microphone toward Priscilla. “Are you claiming that Oliver Falcone personally ordered your termination to cover up financial irregularities?”

“Precisely!” Priscilla declared, tossing her hair back. “I managed this establishment with complete integrity for three years! Then this... this street urchin”—she pointed aggressively at Emma—“staged a ridiculous viral stunt with two actors posing as homeless people to ruin my reputation!”

Rosalind Falcone raised her teacup, taking a calm sip, completely unfazed. Arthur merely chuckled into his napkin.

Emma stepped directly into the path of the camera lens, her posture straight, her eyes flashing with a cold, clear fury.

“Turn that camera off,” Emma said quietly to the cameraman.

“This is a public press statement, sweetie,” Priscilla sneered. “You don't get to tell them what to do anymore. You’re just a puppet standing in a suit you probably stole from the lost-and-found!”

Before Emma could answer, Oliver Falcone rose from his seat.

He did not hurry. He unbuttoned his jacket, took two slow steps toward the center of the room, and stood beside Emma. His presence alone was enough to make the news crew take an involuntary step backward toward the entrance.

“Miss Vain,” Oliver said, his voice dangerously smooth. “You speak of integrity. Let us discuss integrity.”

He gestured to Gideon, who walked out of the office carrying a thick, black leather binder. Gideon handed the binder directly to the lead news reporter.

“What is this?” the reporter asked, opening the cover.

“Those are three years of certified audit reports from Deloitte & Touche,” Oliver explained calmly, his eyes fixed on Priscilla’s paled face. “Detailing fifty-four separate instances of wire fraud, embezzlement, and fake vendor invoices authorized under Priscilla Vain’s personal signature.”

Priscilla’s breath hitched. “That’s... those are forged!”

“They are backed by digital signatures from your personal bank account in the Cayman Islands,” Oliver continued. “Where you deposited four hundred and twenty thousand dollars stolen directly from this restaurant’s employee pension fund.”

The reporter’s eyes went wide. He immediately turned the microphone away from Priscilla and pointed it at the open binder. “Is this true? You stole from the staff pension fund?”

“No! It’s a lie!” Priscilla shrieked, backing toward the door.

“And as for the 'two actors posing as homeless people,'” Oliver added, his voice dropping into a tone of quiet thunder that shook the room, “allow me to introduce the founders of this business.”

Oliver gestured toward the corner table.

Arthur Falcone stood up, smoothing his suit jacket, and walked over to stand beside his son. He looked directly at the news camera.

“My name is Arthur Falcone,” the old man said, his deep, gravely voice carrying the weight of seventy years of Chicago history. “My wife Rosalind and I spent forty years living in a two-room tenement on the West Side. When my son built this restaurant, he named it after the woman who scrubbed floors so he could go to school.”

Arthur looked Priscilla up and down with quiet contempt.

“We came here two nights ago without our fine clothes because we wanted to see if our son’s success had turned his business into a place that mocks the poor. And you, Miss Vain, proved that under your management, this restaurant had lost its soul.”

The cameraman snapped several close-up shots of Arthur, then swung the lens back to Priscilla, whose face had turned the color of spoiled milk.

“However,” Arthur continued, turning his gaze toward Emma, “we also found something precious. We found a young woman who had every reason to be bitter, every reason to look away, but who chose instead to treat two old strangers with dignity. She paid for our meal out of her own meager wages.”

The lead reporter looked at Emma with renewed, profound respect. “Miss Frost... you paid for their meal?”

Emma looked at the camera, her voice steady and clear. “I didn't know who they were. It didn't matter who they were. A person’s worth isn't measured by the suit they wear or the money in their bank account. It’s measured by how they treat people who can do nothing for them in return.”

Oliver looked down at Emma, his dark eyes filled with something close to awe.

The reporter turned to Priscilla. “Miss Vain, do you have any response to the embezzlement charges?”

Priscilla didn't answer. She turned on her high heels, pushed past her own lawyers, and ran out the glass doors into the street, her fur coat flapping behind her like the wings of a frightened crow.

Two Chicago police officers, who had been waiting quietly outside near Gideon’s SUV, stepped forward and intercepted her on the sidewalk, placing her in handcuffs as the news camera captured every humiliating second.

Inside the dining room, the remaining staff broke into spontaneous applause. Chef Walter banged a wooden spoon against a copper pot from the kitchen doorway, beaming with pride.

Oliver turned to Emma, leaning down slightly. “A masterclass in public relations, Manager Frost.”