Julian dropped his phone. It hit the tile floor with a sharp crack, the screen splintering, but Anton Aris’s voice continued to play, raving about the flawless sear on a line-caught sea bass.

"Julian!" Serena cried out, reaching for his arm. "What are you doing?"

Julian shoved past her, his shoul

The adrenaline of a flawless service was a drug Clara had never truly experienced—not like this.

For eight years, the end of a Friday night rush had meant collapsing onto a milk crate in the dry storage room, icing her burned wrists while Julian popped champagne in the dining room with investors.

The dining room of *L’Étoile* was a mausoleum.

It was 8:00 PM on a Saturday night—traditionally the most lucrative, chaotic hour of the week. But tonight, only three of the twenty tables were occupied. The ambient music sounded unnaturally loud in the empty space, and the waitstaff stood awkwardly