Valerie recognized the name from credit card vouchers. Hedge fund executive. Famous not for returns, but for hostile takeovers and brutal lawsuits. New money—desperate to look old.
Behind him walked a woman in a deep red dress, beautiful but closed off, arms crossed like armor.
“This way, Mr. Sterling,” Evan stammered.
Victor didn’t acknowledge him. He dropped into the window-side table overlooking the city lights, spreading himself wide, elbows claiming territory. Power announced without words.
Valerie smoothed her apron and put on her professional mask.
“Good evening. Welcome to Le Laurier. My name is Valerie, and I’ll be taking care of you tonight.”
Victor didn’t look up. He inspected the silverware for flaws.
“Sparkling water. And bring the reserve wine list—the real one, not the tourist version.”
“Of course, sir.”
Valerie turned to the woman.
“And for you, miss?”
The woman offered a small, apologetic smile.
“Still water, please. Thank you.”
Victor finally looked up—but not at Valerie’s face. He scanned her name tag, her worn shoes, her reddened hands. A curl of disdain twisted his mouth.