The bone-in ribeye at Del Frisco's melted like butter, but Clara barely tasted it. She was buzzing on adrenaline and two glasses of a 2018 Cabernet.
Sitting across from her were Tom and Richard, the senior partners at Gallagher Logistics. For the last hour, Clara had put on a masterclass. She'd hit every talking point, laughed at their stale golf jokes, and expertly steered the conversation toward signing the quarterly contract. By the time the busboy cleared their plates, Richard was already talking about next steps.
She had them. The VP spot was practically in her lap.
"Well, Clara," Tom said, dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin. "I have to admit, Harrison-Vane usually sends the old guard to pitch us. It's refreshing to see someone with a little hunger."
"We believe in staying agile, Tom," Clara smiled, leaning back in the leather booth. She caught the eye of their waiter and gave a subtle, practiced nod. "And we're very much looking forward to the partnership."
The waiter materialized a moment later, placing a sleek black leather folio quietly on the table.
Clara didn't miss a beat. She smoothly slid the folio toward her, opening it just enough to slip her heavy metal Chase Sapphire card inside. It was a $740 bill. Standard for a client lunch.
"Nonsense, Clara, let us get that," Richard offered half-heartedly, reaching for his wallet.
"Absolutely not," Clara said smoothly, handing the folio back to the waiter. "Harrison-Vane's treat. You're our guests today."
The men chuckled, pleased, and went back to discussing their upcoming weekend in the Hamptons. Clara checked her Rolex. 1:15 PM. She'd be back at the office by two, contract verbally secured, and she could drop the news right on David's desk.
Two minutes passed. Then three.
The waiter reappeared at the edge of the table. He wasn't holding the little tray with the receipt and a pen. He was holding the card between his thumb and forefinger, and he looked incredibly uncomfortable.
He leaned down, lowering his voice so only Clara could hear. "Excuse me, ma'am. I'm sorry, but the card was declined."
Clara's smile froze. "Declined? That's impossible. Run it again."
"I did, ma'am. Twice. The terminal says 'Limit Exceeded'."
Tom and Richard had stopped talking about the Hamptons. They were looking at her. The silence stretched, thick and heavy.
"There's clearly a glitch with your machine," Clara said, her voice tightening. A prickle of heat started at the back of her neck. "It's a corporate expense account. There is no limit."
"I can try it at the front register if you'd like, but usually—"
"Just try it again," she snapped, louder than she intended.
Tom cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. Richard took a sudden interest in the ice cubes melting in his water glass. The polished, capable image Clara had spent the last hour building was cracking, right over a lunch bill.
Under the table, Clara's hands were shaking. She grabbed her phone and opened the Chase app. She hit the login screen, but a red banner popped up: Password Incorrect. Too many failed attempts. Account Locked.
Panic, cold and sharp, flooded her stomach. What the hell?
She opened her texts. Her thumbs flew over the screen. Clara: Arthur. Emergency. The Chase card is declining at Del Frisco's. Bank app is locked. Fix it NOW.
She watched the three little grey dots appear. Arthur was typing. Arthur: That's weird. Let me call the fraud department. Might take 20-30 mins on hold. Sorry babe!
Thirty minutes. She couldn't sit here in agonizing silence with two senior partners for thirty minutes.
The waiter returned, looking even more apologetic. "Ma'am. Still declining."
Clara's face was burning. She could feel the heat radiating from her cheeks. She opened her purse, her hands fumbling blindly past her lipstick and keys. She pulled out her personal debit card. The one tied to her individual checking account. She had maybe $900 in there from her last bonus, earmarked for her car payment.
"Use this one," she muttered, handing it over, not making eye contact with the waiter.
"Of course."
When the waiter left, Clara looked up and forced a laugh that sounded brittle and thin in the noisy restaurant. "Sorry about that, gentlemen. Bank fraud alerts. You know how it is. Buy one coffee in a different zip code and they lock you down."
"Right," Tom said. His tone was polite, but the warmth was gone. The casual, wealthy ease of the lunch had vanished, replaced by the awkward reality of a woman scrambling to pay for her own expensive pitch. "Well. We should probably get back to the office anyway."
They didn't shake on the contract before they left.
Clara stood on the sidewalk outside Del Frisco's, watching their town car pull away. Her personal checking account was essentially empty now. Her corporate card was dead. And she had looked like a disorganized amateur in front of a million-dollar account.
She gripped her phone, staring at Arthur's last text. Sorry babe!
It was just a glitch. It had to be.