The atmosphere inside *L’Étoile* had shifted from frantic panic to a suffocating, funereal gloom.

It was 11:30 PM. The last disgruntled customer had left an hour ago, demanding a refund on their way out the door. The kitchen staff had cleaned their stations in absolute, terrified silence and fled

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.