Henri nodded. “And Oliver will fire you to ‘protect the restaurant’ if he does. Be careful.”
Valerie returned with menus. Victor looked pleased, like a child who’d broken someone else’s toy. Renee looked miserable.
Victor stared at Valerie.
“I want something authentic. But reading menus in English ruins it. Takes the soul out of the food.”
He smiled. “Tell me—do you speak French?”
“I’m familiar with the menu, sir.”
“Bonjour, baguette, oui oui?” he mocked, turning to Renee. “You can always judge a place by the education of its staff.”
Then he switched to French—not normal French, but exaggerated, archaic, intentionally cruel. He wasn’t communicating. He was trying to crush her.
“Do you understand,” he finished smugly, “or am I speaking too fast for your little brain?”
He waited for humiliation.
Renee looked down, ashamed.
Valerie didn’t move.
She remembered lecture halls at the Sorbonne. Her dissertation on aristocratic dialects. She remembered that language was power—but also justice.
Victor wanted a show.
She would give him one.
She folded her hands, tilted her head slightly, and looked him straight in the eyes.
Then she spoke—in flawless Parisian French. Calm. Precise. Devastating.