Page 43 of Knot Their Arrangement

"I...well, no, but?—"

"Fascinating," he continues, his mismatched eyes studying her with clinical interest. "You speak with such authority about the history and symbolism of traditional footwear, yet you fail to recognize one of only two pairs in existence."

"Two?" she scoffs, pointing at my feet where the edge of my saree drapes. "Those ugly pieces of sh?—"

Her words die in her throat as I lift the fabric slightly, revealing the diamond-encrusted sandals Kieran had so carefully placed on my feet. The manager lets out an audible gasp of horror while the receptionist continues pointing, her hand trembling.

"Those...those aren't the ones she was wearing!" Her voice rises in panic. "She was definitely wearing some handed-down pieces when she arrived!"

A deep chuckle rumbles from Damon's chest, the sound both amused and predatory.

"Does it make logical sense to wear such precious sandals outdoors when it's raining and muddy?" His free hand moves to rest possessively on my lower back. "If you knew and respected the culture, you'd understand the importance of indoor and outdoor shoes, would you not?"

The question hangs in the air like a sword dangling by a thread.

Every word he speaks further exposes not just her ignorance, but her willing prejudice. She didn't just make assumptions — she chose to see what she wanted to see, to justify her own bias against someone she deemed beneath her.

The receptionist's silence speaks volumes as she finally runs out of excuses.

The marble lobby is perfectly silent during this crucial moment, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Before anyone can say more, the manager — a man who probably hasn't kneeled before anyone in years — rushes forward with such desperation that his expensive leather shoes squeak against the floor.

He drops to his knees before us, pressing his forehead to the marble in a display of complete submission that makes my stomach twist. His perfectly tailored suit crumples against the floor as he prostrates himself, all dignity forgotten in his panic.

"Mr. Castellano, please forgive this grievous oversight," he pleads, his voice trembling with genuine fear. "I take full responsibility for my employee's behavior. Whatever compensation you require, monetary or otherwise, I will personally ensure it's handled with the utmost discretion and haste."

Sweat beads on his forehead despite the lobby's careful climate control. His hands shake as they press against the cold marble, and I can see his wedding ring catching the light.

A reminder that his livelihood isn't the only thing at stake here.

A dark chuckle from Damon cuts through the groveling. The sound carries enough menace to make the manager's trembling increase visibly.

"I believe," Damon says with deadly softness, "you're apologizing to the wrong individual." His hand squeezes mine gently as he continues, "You should be bowing to mymia principessa, whom your employee dared disrespect in an establishment I pay very handsomely to frequently attend when I need to think."

The way he says it makes it clear that this isn't just about tonight's insults. This is about systematic prejudice, about assumptions and biases that have no place in his world.

His voice takes on a contemplative tone that carries more threat than any shouting could.

"Perhaps I should take my business elsewhere? Somewhere that understands the value of respect?" The suggestion hangs in the air like a guillotine blade. "I'm certain our associates would be interested to know why we no longer consider this establishment...suitable."

A domino effect in the form of one bad review…

This place would close down in a heartbeat.

The manager's face goes from red to ashen in seconds as he scrambles to redirect his prostration to my feet. His movement is so sudden that his glasses slip from his nose, clattering to the floor unheeded.

"My deepest, most sincere apologies, my lady!" His voice cracks with desperation. "Please forgive this unforgivable transgression! I will personally oversee sensitivity training for all staff. We'll implement new protocols, stricter screening processes?—"

He turns sharply toward the receptionist, nearly losing his balance in his haste.

"Victoria! On your knees! Apologize to her ladyship immediately!"

Victoria –whose name suddenly seems as fake as her designer perfume– stares at us with barely concealed revulsion. Her stubborn expression speaks of prejudices too deeply rooted to be swayed by even this display of power. The designer clothes and carefully crafted image of sophistication can't hide the ugliness beneath.

"That won't be necessary," Damon interjects smoothly, though his tone suggests this mercy isn't for her benefit. "Our Omega deserves genuine remorse. Not the false contrition this woman would offer."

"I'll terminate her employment immediately!" The manager declares, still bowed so low his words are partially muffled by the floor. "She'll be escorted from the premises within the hour. It'll ensure she never works in any establishment of this caliber again?—"

"No!" Victoria's composure finally cracks, her voice rising to a near-shriek that echoes off the marble walls. "I need this job! Without it, I'll be sent back to England. I don't have a pack?—"

---