Benjamin's jaw tightened. For the first time, something moved behind his eyes. Not anger, not shame, something deeper, something old. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the envelope. He held it out toward Derek.
"$8,000. I saved it myself. Eleven months. I want to buy my son a birthday gift. That's all I came here to do."
The room went silent for half a breath. Then Derek snatched the envelope out of Benjamin's hand. He opened it. He thumbed through the bills.
20s, 50s, a few hundreds, wrinkled, some folded at the corners. Pension money. The kind of money that smells like time and sacrifice.
Derek held up the stack and turned to the room. "Look at this." His voice carried to every corner. "Raggedy bills. Probably counted these on a kitchen table somewhere."
He fanned the bills in front of Benjamin's face. "This is not how our clients pay. Our clients have black cards. Our clients don't bring envelopes."
He tossed the envelope onto the glass counter. Bills slid out across the surface. Benjamin reached for them. Derek slapped his hand away. "Don't touch the counter.
His voice turned cold. Colder than before. Not performing anymore. Just cruel.
"Your hands are filthy. I don't want you leaving marks on my display. Benjamin pulled his hand back slowly. He looked at his own fingers.
Scarred, calloused. The hands of a man who had built things his entire life. Things Derek couldn't begin to imagine.
A sales associate, Allison Harper, 26, hired three months ago, stood frozen near the watch case. Her eyes were wet. She opened her mouth, then closed it. She looked at the other staff. Nobody moved. Nobody would be first.
Derek grabbed Benjamin's personal bag from the counter, a small worn leather satchel. He unzipped it and dumped the contents in front of everyone. A bus pass, a folded handkerchief embroidered with the initials NW, a creased photograph of a young man in a graduation gown, a bottle of heart medication. "Look at this." Derek picked up the photograph. "This is your son, the one who supposedly needs a Patek Philippe."
He held it up for the room. "Looks like he'd be more at home at a pawn shop." Benjamin's voice cracked for the first time. "Please, that photograph, give it back."
Derek tossed it onto the floor. The photograph landed face up on the white marble. The young man in the picture was smiling. Nobody picked it up.
A woman near the door glanced down at it, then stepped over it on her way to the handbag section. A man in a gray suit pretended he didn't see it. The teenager kept filming.