Demanding the Manager

Daniel Reeves walked down Aisle Seven with the steady stride of a man accustomed to broken glass and spilled bleach. He wore the dark navy polo of Westbridge management, a brass nameplate pinned straight across his chest, and a ruggedized black tablet tucked flat against his ribs.

Karen turned toward him, her face lighting up with sharp, vindictive energy. She gave the gold crest on her chest a brisk tap with two manicured nails. “Finally. Store management. I need these two removed from the building right now.”

James Walker let out a short, incredulous bark. He stayed leaning over the handle of his cart, his eyes bright with amusement. “Oh, here we go.”

“She struck an elderly woman with her cart,” James told Daniel. “Then she threatened to ban the whole room from North Carolina.”

“He is harassing me,” Karen snapped, cutting her hand through the air. “And this woman stepped right into the path of my minor child. As president of Brookfield Estates, I expect Westbridge Market to maintain basic standards of decorum. I want them trespassed. Both of them.”

Daniel did not look at Karen’s gold badge. He stopped two feet away, his expression flat, his posture relaxed. He glanced down at Eleanor, who was still rubbing her hip, her paper grocery list clutched tight in her hand.

“Are you injured, ma’am?” Daniel asked.

“My hip took a knock,” Eleanor said, her voice dry and steady. “The cart was heavy. But I can walk.”

“Chloe called our first-aid lead,” Daniel said. “He’s bringing a chair.”

“Excuse me?” Karen stepped into Daniel’s line of sight, her voice rising half an octave. “Did you hear what I said? I run four hundred and sixteen homes two miles up the road. We spend thousands in this plaza every week. I am not asking for a customer service review. I am ordering you to remove these people.”

Daniel rested both forearms across the top frame of the ruggedized tablet. His eyes moved down into Karen’s cart, taking in the four vacuum-sealed prime ribeyes and the canary-yellow stickers plastered over the plastic.

“We’ll handle the aisle incident in a moment, Mrs. Whitmore,” Daniel said. He tapped the glass screen once with his thumb. “First, we need to talk about your groceries.”