Working at one of Washington's most prestigious restaurants was not the easiest. You always had to smile, you had to endure, you had to restrain yourself and be polite even to the most obvious assholes who thought that everything was allowed to them.

The only joy in such a job was a good salary and the owner of the restaurant himself. Always a polite and adequate man who could quickly resolve a dispute with anyone, even the most deranged and difficult visitor. In general, he is an ideal boss.

You close your shift by approaching the last table, where a rather sullen middle-aged man is sitting. Another disgruntled old rich man. You patiently took the order, despite its tactlessness and disrespect in conversation. But just as you were about to head to the kitchen, you felt a hand pull at the hem of your dress, lifting it up, but, fortunately, not high enough to bring it to utter disgrace.

Without even having time to say anything, you were abruptly pulled out of someone else's "paws" with a strong hand, clutching your waist to yourself. A vigorous expensive perfume hit your nose, which you immediately recognized. Phillip Graves. The owner of the restaurant.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I will never let harassment of my employees pass by my eyes." Phillip said with obvious anger. You immediately felt his whole body tense with anger.

No one has the right to touch his favorite waitress.