STOP DIGGING

Derek Morgan sat in one of his private bars, swirling the last of his whiskey as he stared at the amber liquid instead of drinking it. He was the CEO of Morganton Empire.

“What’s my next schedule for tonight?” he asked without looking up at his personal assistant, Steve.

“Gala, sir,” Steve replied. “And… one hour left.”

Derek’s jaw tightened. He hated galas; the lights, the noise, the fake smiles. With a sharp exhale, he snapped his fingers for Steve to continue.

“That’s all, sir.”

Derek set the glass down and rose, adjusting the tie of his perfectly tailored suit.

“We’re leaving now.”

He turned, but before he could take a step, he collided with a waiter carrying a tray of wine. Two glasses crashed to the floor, red liquid splashing across his suit.

“Hell,” Derek muttered, staring at the white shirt now stained a muddy brown.

He looked up, ready to lash out, but the moment he met the waiter’s gaze, he froze; staring at the hot, handsome waiter who wore only a black apron, revealing a well-built body, paired with jean trousers.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” the waiter apologized, trying to wipe the stain from Derek’s shirt.

Steve immediately pressed a button on his AirPod.

“Get the manager; Mr. Shawn here now!” he ordered.

“Please, sir. I just started work here today,” the waiter begged, still brushing at Derek’s shirt.

Derek caught his wrist and lifted his gaze to Steve.

“Stand down,” Derek said sharply. “It’s just a suit. Call them off. I won’t need an escort.”

“Yes, sir.”

Steve relayed the order. “Retreat. Boss won’t need an escort.”

“Thank you, sir. Thank you,” the waiter said gratefully as he picked up the tray and hurried away.

“Shawn is hiring incompetent people,” Derek scoffed as he walked off.

They headed outside where the driver was already waiting. Just as Derek reached for the car door, something caught his eye.

A note on the windshield.

Bold, sharp handwriting:

STOP DIGGING.

Derek froze. “What the hell? Who’s the crazy person who left this?”

Steve hurried forward, grabbed the note, and tossed it aside. Derek got into the car, still staring at the windshield as if the words had burned into it.

“How much time do we have?” Derek asked.

“Thirty-five minutes, sir.”

“We can’t make it home. Stop by the nearest boutique, I need another suit.”

They stopped at a designer shop. Steve went in and returned with a packaged suit.

“Go to a hotel. I need to change,” Derek instructed.

*Minutes later*

Derek changed into the new suit and they sped toward the gala.

By the time they arrived, the venue was swarmed with fans and journalists. Flashes exploded in Derek’s face as he stepped out. 

He forced a smile; more like a grimace, as dozens of hands reached for him as if he were a polished trophy on display.

Inside the ballroom, he stood with an untouched glass of champagne while investors circled him.

The Morganton Foundation Charity Gala was meant to be a celebration, but all Derek felt was a threat.

**At the Bar**

The waiter slung his bag over his shoulder as he approached Mr. Shawn, who sat with a hard expression.

“Sir, thank you for the opportunity. I’ll be on my way,” he said, turning to leave, until Shawn’s voice stopped him.

“You can’t do this job!” Shawn snapped.

“Yes, I saw how you spilled orders on almost every customer you attended to, including the boss,” Shawn continued.

“Please, sir. I know I did badly today, but it’s my first day. Please, I’ll do better tomorrow. Just give me another chance,” the waiter begged.

“Tomorrow?” Shawn scoffed. “…One last chance?” he asked, arching a brow.

“Yes, sir.”

“Fine. You may leave now but you need to make it up to every customer you disappointed,” Shawn said dismissively.

The waiter nodded, mounted his bike, and rode off.

*At the Gala*

A prickle crawled up Derek’s spine.

He set the champagne down, loosened his tie, and headed for the exit. Steve followed immediately. Cameras erupted again the moment they stepped outside.

“Straight home,” Derek ordered as he sank into the car.

As they drove, the waiter rode behind them. He sped up, pulling closer to the car, recognizing Derek. Shawn’s words echoed in his head.

Make it up to every customer you disappointed.

“I just need to know where he lives. Maybe I’ll visit with a drink I make to apologize,” he muttered.

The car turned onto another street.

He followed, noting how quiet it was. They might notice they were being followed.

He stopped his bike.

“Or is this a bad idea?” he thought as the car disappeared from view.

“I’ll go on foot. I can’t miss this opportunity,” he decided, leaving the bike and trailing the car quietly.

Suddenly, a child appeared in the middle of the road, blocking the car.

“Damn it!” the driver shouted, slamming the brakes.

Steve rushed out to move the girl, but the moment he touched her, three masked men emerged from the alley; silent and fast.

Steve didn’t stand a chance.

Two more men approached the car.

“Get out!” one barked, slamming his fist against the window.

Derek and the driver stepped out, fear gripping them. Steve lay bleeding heavily on the pavement. One attacker struck the driver, dropping him instantly.

“Please… please spare me,” Derek begged. Panic ripped through him, dragging him back to the night he’d been kidnapped during his father’s abduction.

One of the masked men stepped forward, smirking.

“Derek Morgan.”

“I’ll pay anything, just name your price,” Derek stammered.

“I need to do something,” the waiter muttered, shaking his head.

“You spoiled CEO,” the man spat, slapping Derek hard across the face.

Derek’s pulse spiked.

One man clamped a hand over Derek’s mouth while another wrenched his arms behind him. His breathing shattered into desperate gasps.

The lead attacker pulled out a blade.

“No. I can’t watch this happen,” the waiter muttered, clenching his fists.

“You were warned to stop digging,” the attacker hissed. “Now you’re coming with…”

Footsteps echoed.

“Stop. Now!” the waiter commanded.

“Who the hell is he?” one attacker scoffed.

The waiter didn’t answer.

Derek recognized him instantly; the waiter who had spilled wine on his suit.

Then the waiter moved: one punch; swift and brutal sent the closest attacker crashing to the ground, jaw twisted at a terrible angle.

The second attacker lunged, but a blow to the ribs folded him like paper.

The third barely raised his knife before the waiter twisted his wrist, shoved him to the ground, and knocked him unconscious.

The remaining attackers exchanged looks, then charged.

The waiter blocked with his forearms, drove his elbow into one man’s skull, and kicked the other so hard he slammed into the wall.

Silence followed.

Derek stared, heart pounding. He had never seen anyone fight like that.

The waiter approached him.

“Please… spare me,” Derek whispered instinctively.

“Are you hurt?” the waiter asked.

Derek swallowed. “No. I think I’m fine.”

“I’m glad,” the waiter said quietly.

“…What’s your name?” Derek asked.

The waiter hesitated. “Rafe. Rafe Serafin.”

He checked the attackers. “They’re trained. Hired. Not street thugs.”

Derek already knew that.

“You saved my life,” Derek said.

“You looked like you needed help,” Rafe replied.

“How can I repay you? Name your price,” Derek insisted.

“One favor,” Rafe said. “My manager is about to fire me. Please, come to the bar tomorrow. I’ll make it up to you.”

Rafe lifted Steve and the driver into the car, then took the wheel and drove them somewhere safe.

Derek made a call. “I’m out. Handle it.”

He exhaled shakily.

“No one ever helps me without wanting something. Ask for something bigger… maybe money,” he said.

Rafe stayed silent.

Derek looked at his unconscious men, then back at Rafe.

“Then let me offer something,” Derek said.

Rafe raised an eyebrow. “What?”