The doors opened, and Evan Caldwell entered like the room belonged to him—tailored suit, sharp jaw, eyes scanning for dominance. A hedge fund executive, famous more for lawsuits than success. New money, aggressively insecure.
Beside him walked Madeline Price, elegant but withdrawn, arms folded like armor.
Clara approached with practiced calm.
“Good evening. I’ll be taking care of you.”
Evan inspected the cutlery instead of her face.
“Sparkling water. And the real wine list.”
She nodded and turned—until he stopped her.
“Make sure the glass is clean this time,” he said loudly. “Standards are slipping everywhere.”
Clara felt the heat rise but kept her voice even.
“I’ll check it personally.”
As she walked away, Evan leaned toward Madeline.
“You have to be firm with people like that. Power is everything.”
At the service station, the bartender whispered, “He’s awful. Last time he complained because the rain ruined his mood.”
“I can handle him,” Clara said, though her stomach twisted.
When she returned with the appetizers and poured a rare Bordeaux, Evan stopped her again.
“It’s spoiled.”
Clara froze. She knew the wine—it was flawless.
“It may need air,” she said carefully.