Cooperate.
As if her humiliation were a small administrative matter.
Then a calm voice entered the silence.
“That won’t be necessary.”
Everyone turned.
An elderly man rose from a nearby table and walked toward them with quiet authority. His gray hair was neat, his suit perfect, his posture commanding.
It was Chief Maxwell Rotimi.
The owner of the establishment.
The room changed the moment people recognized him.
He stopped beside the table and looked at Cynthia.
“What is happening here?”
Cynthia launched into her story, voice full of fake outrage.
Chief Maxwell listened without expression. Then he asked one question.
“Have you checked your own bag?”
“Yes,” Cynthia said quickly.
“Check again.”
She hesitated. For the first time, her confidence slipped. Then Chief Maxwell gestured toward a security camera mounted in the corner.
Cynthia saw it and visibly altered.
She had not expected there to be proof.
When security stepped forward and asked to inspect her clutch, she resisted at first. But too many eyes were on her now.
At last, she handed it over.
The guard opened the bag, searched once, then again, then pulled out a sleek platinum card and held it up.
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