Jason's eyes darted toward Armstrong, flashing that unmistakable *we need to talk* look. It was quick, but loud enough to catch Pearl's attention. She could tell they had something private to discuss—something they'd both rather not say in front of her.
But before Armstrong could open his mouth to ask what was going on, Pearl jumped in, her voice sharp and urgent.
"Jason,"she called.
Jason flinched slightly at the sound of her voice. He turned to her, but his gaze lingered too long on her lips, as if lost in a thought he wasn't ready to admit. Then, like someone snapping out of a daze, he blinked hard and straightened.
"Yes?" he answered, his voice lower than usual.
"Did Sheila message you this morning?" Pearl asked, eyes locked on him.
He gave a slow, almost reluctant nod.
Pearl stepped forward. "What did she say?"
Jason hesitated.
It wasn't just nerve there was something deeper, like guilt wrapped in silence. His fingers twitched as he reached into his pocket but didn't pull anything out.
"Jason," Armstrong said, more firmly now. "We need every piece of information we can get. Even the smallest message could be a clue."
Still, Jason didn't budge. His jaw clenched as if revealing the message would expose more than just words.
Pearl narrowed her eyes and said sarcastically "Why are you hesitating? What is in that message that you're so afraid of me seeing?"
Jason looked away.
That was all Armstrong needed.
Without waiting another second, Armstrong lunged forward and snatched the phone from Jason's hand.
" Hey Armstrong!" Jason snapped, but it was too late.
His eyes scanned the message and then froze. His jaw dropped slightly, lips parted in stunned disbelief.
Pearl, who already half expected what the message was going to be , leaned in to steal a glance at the screen. Just as she predicted
"Jason, if you think I'm aborting the baby, then you're wrong. I'm keeping this baby. It's a love seed, between you and I."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Pearl's hand clenched involuntarily. Armstrong blinked hard, reread the message, then suddenly burst out laughing a wild, awkward laugh filled with shock.
"Yo, Jas! So you're going to be a dad now?" he said between half-choked chuckles.
Jason snatched the phone back, his eyes flicking around in panic until they landed right on Pearl.
Her expression was unreadable.
"Pearl, I can explain. It's not... it's not what it looks like, I swear—"
"Jason." Her voice was low, but sharp. "Why are you explaining anything to me?"
He paused, caught off guard by her tone. There was something in her voice that he couldn't fathom.
Pearl took a breath, forcing composure back into her posture.
"What's important now is finding Sheila. She's out there, alone. And she's pregnant. That's all that matters right now making sure she and the baby are safe."
At the mention of the word *baby*, Jason visibly flinched. Armstrong noticed.
Pearl noticed too but she chose not to say a word.
Not that she had anything to say in the first place
Because right now,
Finding Sheila was all that mattered.
Pearl glanced at her phone and nearly choked on air.
3:42 PM.
She was late. Not "just five minutes" late ridiculously, manager-will-eat-me-alive kind of late.
Without saying goodbye, she grabbed her bag tighter and bolted through the school gate, weaving past students like a ghost on a mission. Her shoes slapped against the concrete, heart thudding like a war drum in her chest.
As she reached the back entrance of the café , her lungs begged for air, but her eyes scanned for only one thing: "the manager".
Not there.
She breathed out like she'd just dodged death itself.
Pearl slipped through the staff door and tiptoed into the cloakroom, tugging off her hoodie and changing into her black-and-white waitress uniform like a soldier gearing up for battle. Hair tied, apron on, dignity half-intact.
She stepped out, trying to blend in with the movement of other servers—only to freeze when she saw Lydia her ever-watchful senior colleague. Before she could duck behind the counter, sandy , the kindhearted hostess, made eye contact and subtly gestured for her to hide.
Too late.
"Pearl!!!"
The name hit her like a slap.
She turned, slowly plastering a smile on her face as if it would erase the panic that had just hijacked her soul.
"Good afternoon, Lydia," she said sweetly, lacing her voice with fake cheer.
Lydia, tall and poised with her usual unbothered elegance, raised a perfectly arched brow. She didn't scold. She didn't yell.
Instead, she said coolly, "Since you're late… why don't you go serve Table 7?"
Pearl blinked.
Wait. No punishment? No sarcastic remark about her punctuality or lack of commitment? No warning about how many strikes she had left?
Just Table 7?
"Uh… sure," she replied slowly. "I'll."
Pearl had barely taken two steps when a hand grabbed her by the elbow, yanking her slightly to the side.
It was Sandy, her co-worker and unofficial gossip plug. Her expression was grim.
"What are you doing?" Sandy asked in a hushed but urgent tone.
Pearl blinked, still gripping her notepad. "Um… going to serve?" she replied, unsure why that even needed explaining.
Sandy leaned in closer. "Do you even know who's sitting at Table 7?"
Pearl raised an eyebrow, confused. "Some students?"
Sandy scoffed like Pearl had just insulted her intelligence. "Those aren't just students, Pearl. That's the Notorious Five of Crestvile. Rich, arrogant, untouchable. They live for trouble. Stir it up everywhere they go. They made Bella cry last week, and you know Bella doesn't cry for anything."
Pearl's heart skipped. But before she could ask more, a loud, sharp voice sliced through the air like a dagger:
"Who the hell is taking my f*king order?! Are we invisible or what?"
Pearl flinched.
The voice belonged to a girl. Sharp, nasal, and laced with the kind of entitlement that had its own postcode.
She closed her eyes for a second, took a long breath, and forced her shoulders to relax. She couldn't afford to shake now.
"You've handled worse," she whispered to herself. "Clara's explosion at the factory? You survived that."
But even as she stepped forward, something in her gut twisted.
She was wrong.
This?
This was a whole different beast.
She approached the table, her polite waitress smile stretched across her face like plastic wrap, her notepad ready.
Five of them.
Two girls, draped in designer labels and bad attitudes. Three boys, lounging like royalty in a cheap kingdom, tossing French fries into each other's mouths and laughing like the world owed them joy.
"Good afternoon," she said, calm but firm. "May I take your orders?"
They didn't answer at first. One of the boys tall, dreadlocked, with a lazy smirk—looked her up and down like she was an exhibit.
Finally, one of the girls snapped, "Ugh, finally. We've been sitting here forever."
"Bring us a round of tequila shots. And don't water it down. We want the real stuff."
"Also three plates of Cajun grilled chicken wraps, extra spicy. Toss in plantain fries on the side yes, plantain, not potato."
"One creamy seafood pasta make it rich, none of that budget version."
"And get us two beef sliders with caramelized onions. Medium rare."
"Oh and a bowl of suya-spiced wings. With pepper sauce. No pepper, no respect."
"For dessert? Hmm… surprise us. Just make it sweet and bougie."
"No pepper in mine," the other girl cut in. "But I still want pepper sauce on the side. Creamy. Not tomato-y. Get it right. I'm allergic to stupid."
One of the guys tapped his glass with a spoon. "I want fries. But not frozen. I can taste frozen. If I taste frozen, I'll throw it at you. I swear."
Pearl nodded, scribbling furiously.
Tequila shots. Caesar salad. Grilled chicken "medium rare, and if it's dry, I'm calling my dad" plus a whole order of sushi that wasn't even on the menu.
She kept nodding. Kept smiling. Kept writing.
But her fingers were starting to tremble.
These weren't customers.
They were chaos dressed in brand names.