The Friday night rush at Chen's Garden hits like a tidal wave, but Lisa barely notices the chaos. Her feet move on autopilot between tables, her smile fixed in place as firmly as the jade pendant her grandmother gave her for luck. But her mind circles endlessly around one thought: Yale hasn't responded. Stanford for the “golden couple”, Yale for Susan "legacy" Lawrence, and here she is, stuck in limbo, drowning in sesame chicken and college dreams.

  "Lisa, dear." The elderly woman's voice cuts through Lisa's spiral. Mrs. Henderson – a regular since before Lisa could reach the kitchen counter – peers up at her with gentle concern. "You seem distracted tonight. Everything alright?"

  "Oh, I'm fine, Mrs. Henderson." Lisa summons her brightest smile, the one that usually guarantees better tips. "Just thinking about college applications. You know how it is."

  Mr. Henderson adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses with practiced precision. "Ah yes, waiting to hear from schools. Worst part of the whole process. But a bright girl like you – you'll have your pick of them."

  If only they knew. Lisa's pen hovers over her notepad, muscle memory taking over. "Are you ready to order?"

  "The usual for me," Mr. Henderson declares. "That lovely orange chicken your father makes. Extra spicy – got to keep the blood flowing at my age!"

  Mrs. Henderson clucks her tongue disapprovingly. "Pete, your doctor said-"

  "Oh, let an old man live a little, Margaret!"

  Their familiar bickering washes over Lisa like comfort food as she jots down their order. Same dishes, same table, same gentle squabbling. At least some things in Riverside never change.

  The kitchen window glows like a beacon as Lisa approaches, the sound of sizzling woks and rapid-fire Mandarin creating its own kind of music. "Table eight," she calls out, clipping the order to the rotating wheel. "Orange chicken extra spicy, Buddha's delight with tofu."

  Her father looks up from where he's orchestrating three dishes simultaneously, his forehead gleaming with sweat. "Ah, the Hendersons!" A rare smile crosses his weathered features. "Tell Pete xián shēng this time I make it extra extra spicy. Show him what real heat tastes like!"

  Lisa can't help but grin – her father's eternal mission to convert Riverside's palates to authentic Sichuan spice levels. "Bà, you're going to give him a heart attack."

  "Builds character!" he declares, returning to his woks with the precision of a conductor leading an orchestra.

  The bar offers momentary refuge, and Lisa gulps down ice water like she's been crossing a desert. Her throat feels raw from reciting specials and making small talk, her feet already aching despite the expensive gel insoles she'd splurged on last week.

  "Lisa!" Her mother's voice cracks like a whip across the dining room. "Table sixteen still waiting. Bù yào làn huī!"

  "Duì bu qǐ, Mā." Lisa straightens, squaring her shoulders as she spots the new arrivals at sixteen. Time to paste on that smile again, recite the familiar welcome speech that's become as natural as breathing.

  Her steps falter as she approaches the corner booth, mind still half-focused on Yale's deafening silence. "Good evening, welcome to Chen's Garden. Our specials tonight are-"

  The words die in her throat as she finally looks up from her notepad. Richard Rosenberg's ice-blue eyes meet hers with predatory focus, while George Lawrence studies the menu with exaggerated interest. The power of Riverside Heights, wrapped in bespoke suits and casual dominance, holding court in her family's modest restaurant.

  Her pen trembles slightly against the paper as the temperature seems to drop ten degrees.

  "Hello, Lisa," Richard Rosenberg's voice carries that particular tone that makes boardrooms tremble.

  "Lisa!" George Lawrence's smile carries all the warmth of a shark circling prey. "You've grown into quite the young lady. How long has it been since the Heights Club fundraiser? Two years?"

  "Three, sir." Lisa's voice sounds steadier than she feels. Her mind races – the Rosenbergs and Lawrences have never set foot in Chen's Garden. Their idea of Asian cuisine involves hundred-dollar sushi rolls and sake that costs more than her monthly tips.

  "Tell me, Lisa," Richard leans back, studying her with those unnerving eyes that Amber inherited, "any word from New Haven? I understand decisions are coming out soon."

  The question hits like a punch to the gut. "Not yet, Mr. Rosenberg."

  "Really?" George's eyebrows lift with practiced surprise. "That's odd. Could have sworn I saw your file cross my desk just yesterday. The alumni review committee has been quite... thorough this year."

  "Please," Richard gestures to the empty space beside him, "join us for a moment."

  Lisa glances toward the kitchen, where tickets pile up in the window. "I really should-"

  "I insist." Richard's tone remains perfectly pleasant, but something in it makes her blood run cold. "Your other tables can wait."

  The vinyl booth creaks as Lisa slides in beside Richard Rosenberg, his cologne making her head spin slightly. She finds herself directly across from George Lawrence, who studies the laminated menu like it's evidence in a murder trial.

  "Fascinating selection here," George muses, flipping another page. "What is it – fifteen pages? That's quite an extensive inventory to maintain. How does your father manage to keep everything... fresh?"

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  "We rotate stock regularly," Lisa answers carefully. "Dad's very particular about quality control."

  "Mmm." George's lips curve into something adjacent to a smile. "Still, health code violations can be so... unpredictable. One bad inspection, one anonymous tip..."

  Ice spreads through Lisa's veins. "Our kitchen meets every standard. Dad runs the cleanest operation in Riverside."

  George's eyes meet Richard's, and something passes between them that makes Lisa's stomach drop.

  "Speaking of standards," Richard reaches into his briefcase, producing two crisp envelopes. He places them on the table with surgical precision. "I believe we have some matters to discuss regarding your future."

  The first envelope bears Yale's distinctive logo, still sealed but somehow radiating possibility. The second is plain white, unmarked except for a small notation that makes Lisa's heart stop: "Health Department - Confidential."

  "Choices," Richard continues, his voice carrying that same tone he uses in boardroom takeovers, "shape our destiny. One path leads to New Haven – full scholarship, I might add. Legacy housing. All the opportunities a bright young woman like yourself deserves."

  His manicured finger slides the second envelope forward. "The other path... well, let's just say certain anonymous sources have documented some concerning practices here at Chen's Garden. Nothing fatal, of course, but enough to trigger a very thorough investigation. The kind that could shut down a family business indefinitely."

  The fluorescent lights suddenly feel too bright, the air too thin. Lisa stares at the envelopes – one promising everything she's ever dreamed of, the other threatening to destroy everything her parents have built.

  Lisa's fingers curl into fists beneath the table, her nails leaving crescent moons in her palms. "What exactly do you want from me, Mr. Rosenberg?"

  Richard's eyes scan the bustling restaurant with predatory precision. A young couple by the window, lost in their phones. The Hendersons, still bickering over portions. Two waitresses comparing orders by the kitchen. Satisfied, he leans closer, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper.

  "You've been asking questions, Lisa. Visiting administration. Accessing records. Digging into matters that don't concern students from..." His gaze sweeps dismissively over the modest restaurant decor, "...downtown."

  "I don't know what you're talking about." The lie feels clumsy on her tongue, but she forces herself to hold his gaze.

  "For God's sake!" George's fist crashes against the table, making the water glasses jump. "Don't insult our intelligence, girl. Your little amateur detective routine ends tonight."

  "George." Richard's voice carries a note of warning. "There's no need for theatrics. We're all civilized people here."

  The tension crackles between them as George settles back, adjusting his tie with barely contained irritation. A passing waitress glances their way, but Richard's pleasant smile sends her scurrying toward the kitchen.

  "You see, Lisa," Richard continues, his tone shifting to something almost paternal, "everything I do – every decision, every... solution – serves one purpose: protecting my daughter." His eyes take on a dangerous gleam. "Amber is my world. My legacy. And I will move heaven and earth to ensure her future remains... unblemished."

  The weight of unspoken threats hangs heavy in the air between them, thick enough to choke on.

  Lisa forces herself to meet Richard's gaze, those familiar ice-blue eyes – Amber's eyes – boring into her soul. In them, she sees the same calculated intensity she's watched Amber deploy countless times, but refined by decades of corporate warfare and carefully buried secrets.

  "So that's it?" Her voice carries more steel than she feels. "You want to buy my silence like some corporate merger?"

  "Buy?" Richard's laugh holds no humor. "No, Lisa. I'm offering you a choice." He taps the Yale envelope with one manicured finger. "Behind door number one: New Haven. Full scholarship. The kind of opportunities that transform family legacies. A chance to be more than just another immigrant success story slinging lo mein in downtown Riverside."

  His hand moves to the other envelope, touch almost gentle. "Door number two: A very thorough health inspection. The kind that finds exactly what it's looking for, regardless of reality. How long did it take your parents to build this place? Twenty years? Thirty? Amazing how quickly it could all disappear."

  Lisa's eyes drift to her mother, watching her weave between tables with practiced grace, back straight despite twelve-hour shifts and endless demands. First-generation dreams carried on aching feet and calloused hands. The weight of family expectations pressing down like mountains.

  Hannah's face flashes through her mind – that last conversation by her locker, the determination in her eyes as she talked about exposing the truth. Alex's empty desk in AP Literature, her absence like a accusation. But then... Yale. The escape route she's dreamed of since freshman year. The golden ticket out of endless restaurant shifts and generational poverty.

  Her chin dips in a slight nod, defeat and victory tangled together in her chest. "I understand."

  "Excellent choice." Richard's smile could charm board members or frighten small children as he slides the Yale envelope toward her. "Welcome to the Ivy League, Miss Chen."

  For one brilliant moment, as her fingers close around that heavy cream envelope, pure joy floods Lisa's system. The acceptance letter feels like victory, like validation, like every late-night study session and extra AP class finally paying off.

  Then George's hand snakes out, snatching the other envelope with practiced efficiency. "I'll just hold onto this insurance policy," he smirks, tucking it into his suit jacket. "Consider it... motivation to maintain our understanding."

  The joy curdles in Lisa's stomach as the full weight of her choice settles over her. She's gained Yale, but lost something else – something that feels suspiciously like her soul.

  Richard straightens his tie, shifting seamlessly into the role of casual dinner guest. "Now then, what do you have on tap? Something local, perhaps?"

  The sudden change in tone makes Lisa's head spin. "We... we have Riverside Craft IPA, Palmetto Pale Ale, and..." Her voice catches as she tries to remember the rest of the beer list she's recited hundreds of times.

  "The draft selection, dear," George prompts with exaggerated patience, as if the last ten minutes never happened.

  "Right, sorry. Also Golden Harbor Lager and Downtown Draft." Her pen trembles slightly against the notepad.

  "Ah, Downtown Draft." Richard nods approvingly. "Their new brewmaster is doing excellent work. I'll have that and the Szechuan beef – extra spicy. Your father's reputation for heat precedes him."

  "Make that two," George adds, closing his menu with a sharp snap. "Though perhaps warn the kitchen to be gentle with mine. Not all of us have Richard's asbestos palate."

  Lisa's feet carry her three steps from the table before she stops, the Yale letter burning against her skin through her apron pocket. She turns slowly, the words catching in her throat. "Mr. Rosenberg, Mr. Lawrence... thank you."

  Richard's smile carries all the warmth and danger of a sun about to go supernova. "The pleasure's ours, Miss Chen. After all, what kind of world would we live in if merit went unrewarded?" His eyes lock onto hers with terrifying intensity. "I look forward to watching you rise to your full potential. Just remember – some stories are better left untold."

  The fluorescent lights flicker once, casting strange shadows across his face, before Lisa turns and walks away. Each step feels like moving through water, the weight of choices and consequences pressing down like depths she'll never surface from.

  Behind her, she can hear Richard and George discussing quarterly projections as if they'd just closed another routine business deal. In a way, she supposes, they had.

  After all, in Riverside Heights, everything has its price – even silence, even souls.

  Especially truth.