"Victor, you can't just call my boss and quit my job!" Libby said, pulling her hand out of his grip. The sudden movement sent a drop of orange juice spilling over the rim of the glass and onto the crisp white duvet.
Victor didn't flinch. He didn't raise his voice. He simply reached for a linen napkin on the tray, dabbed at the small stain with slow, deliberate precision, and set the napkin back down.
"I can, Libby, and I did," he said quietly. His tone wasn't angry; it was patient, the way one speaks to a child who doesn't understand how the world works yet. "You were making minimum wage to stand on your feet for six hours in a cold gallery, taking orders from a man who didn't even know your last name. You were stressed every night. You were burning out."
"It was my job," she insisted,
