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

Julian was still sitting in the dark of his office, his head resting on the desk, when his phone buzzed violently against the wood.

He groaned, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes to stop the room from spinning. The scotch was sitting heavy and sour in his stomach. He didn't want to look