He ordered in German just to humiliate the waitress, laughing that “girls like her” could never understand a real education. Iris Novák only smiled and poured his wine flawlessly—because she speaks seven languages and understood every insult, including his plan to cut “unprofitable” hospital care that keeps her grandmother alive. When he threatened her in German, she answered back with perfect fluency, silencing the table. That night, her grandmother opened an old folder of hidden links to his family—and Iris realized one language wouldn’t just expose a millionaire… it would unlock the truth about her mother.

He ordered in German just to humiliate the waitress, laughing that “girls like her” could never understand a real education. Iris Novák only smiled and poured his wine flawlessly—because she speaks seven languages and understood every insult, including his plan to cut “unprofitable” hospital care that keeps her grandmother alive. When he threatened her in German, she answered back with perfect fluency, silencing the table. That night, her grandmother opened an old folder of hidden links to his family—and Iris realized one language wouldn’t just expose a millionaire… it would unlock the truth about her mother.

The dining room of The Golden Star glittered the way only rich places do—crystal lights, white linen, quiet arrogance. People didn’t “see” the staff here. They noticed plates, not hands.

Iris Novák moved between tables with a steady tray and a practiced smile. She’d learned to keep her face calm, even when her feet burned and her pride took the hits.

In the kitchen, Chef Benoît Leroux caught her for half a second and murmured, “Hold your head high, Iris. Dignity doesn’t need permission.”

She gave him a quick nod and kept walking—because bills don’t pause for pep talks.

Then the front doors opened, and the room shifted.

Klaus Falken, a well-known investor, entered with his son Leon. Expensive suits, effortless confidence. The manager practically ran to greet them.

A minute later, Iris was told, “Table seven. Now.”

She approached, polite and neutral.

“Good evening. I’m Iris. May I get you something to drink?”

Klaus finally looked up—slowly, like he was deciding whether she counted.

Leon smirked. “They sent the pretty one.”

Klaus tapped the menu like it was a joke. Then, with a smile meant for his son—not for her—he switched into German, deliberately formal and deliberately sharp.

“Let’s see if she even understands a word. I doubt she can follow anything beyond ‘yes, sir.’”

Leon laughed.

Iris heard every syllable. Cleanly. Completely.

But she didn’t react.

She simply smiled the same professional smile… and waited.

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