Chapter 2 - The Audit of the Century
Two hours later, the private dining room looked like a battlefield of excess. Empty crystal decanters, crumpled linen napkins, and discarded seafood shells littered the tables. Beatrice and her thirty-eight friends had consumed over four thousand dollars in rare wines alone, followed by multi-course gourmet meals that pushed our kitchen staff to their absolute limits.
The restaurant had quieted down as the afternoon lunch rush faded into the lull before dinner service. Gavin walked up to me, holding a long, computer-generated itemized receipt, his hands visibly shaking.
"Camilla," Gavin whispered, swallowing hard. "The final total. With tax and service gratuity included..." He turned the paper around so I could read the bold numbers printed at the bottom.
Total Due: $23,289.42.
"Twenty-three thousand," Gavin breathed. "Should I bring it out to her now?"
"Not yet," I said, my voice as cold as ice. "Let them finish their espresso and digest. Give them another twenty minutes to wallow in their self-importance. Then, bring the check out on a silver tray. And make sure you bring the manila folder I left in my office."
Gavin offered a tight, nervous nod, recognizing the dangerous glint in my eye. He walked away to coordinate with the floor staff.
I stood by the service station, watching Beatrice through the glass partition. She was reapplying her lipstick in a compact mirror, looking entirely pleased with herself, basking in the hollow praise of women who only liked her because she threw lavish parties on someone else’s dime. For years, she had treated me like an invisible servant in my own house, a domestic accessory meant to prop up her son’s fraudulent ego while they siphoned away my dignity and my capital.
Lucas had thought he was clever, hiding his mistress in downtown high-rises and charging weekend getaways to corporate credit lines tied to my business EIN. He thought my obsession with running a clean, high-end restaurant meant I was too distracted to look at bank statements. He forgot one crucial detail: a chef lives and dies by inventory control and cost accounting. You cannot misplace twenty thousand dollars a month in a boutique restaurant without triggering massive red flags.
Twenty minutes later, Gavin executed my orders with theatrical precision. He walked through the dining room holding a silver tray with a pristine white linen draped over it, carrying the monstrous bill. The thirty-eight women fell silent, watching him approach Beatrice’s table with curious expressions.
Gavin placed the leather folio neatly in front of Beatrice alongside a thick, sealed manila envelope.
Beatrice didn't even bother opening it immediately. She waved her hand dismissively, flashing a diamond-encrusted ring. "Just put it on the house account, Gavin. Mr. Vance handles all corporate billing for this establishment."
Gavin didn't smile. He stood at attention, his posture rigid. "I’m afraid that’s no longer possible, Mrs. Vance. My instructions from the owner are very clear. Payment is due immediately upon presentation. In full."
Beatrice’s smile faltered, a flicker of irritation crossing her powdered face. "Don't be ridiculous. I am family. Open the tab."
"Open the tab?" I stepped out from behind the service station, my heels clicking sharply against the polished concrete floor as I closed the distance toward their table. The entire dining room seemed to hold its breath. "There is no family tab here, Beatrice. There is only a business. And your business today is settling your debts."
Beatrice scoffed, her cheeks flushing a mottled red as her friends watched intently. "Camilla, don't throw a childish temper tantrum in front of my guests. It’s unprofessional. Just charge it to Lucas like we always do."
"Lucas can't pay for a cup of coffee right now, let alone a twenty-three-thousand-dollar luxury lunch," I said smoothly, pulling out a chair and sitting down uninvited at the head of their table.
Beatrice slammed her coffee cup down into its saucer, coffee splashing across the pristine linen. "Have you lost your mind? Open that folio right now and apologize to my friends!"
"Oh, I'll open it," I replied softly. "In fact, why don't you open it yourself, Beatrice? You wanted to treat everyone today. Let's see how much generosity your son's stolen money can actually buy."
With trembling, indignant fingers, Beatrice reached out, ripped open the leather folio, and pulled out the printed register tape. Her eyes scanned the towering column of numbers, dropping down to the grand total at the bottom.
23,289.42.
The color drained instantly from Beatrice’s face. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. "This... this is an outrage! You charged us extortionate prices! You cannot possibly expect—"
"I expect payment in full," I interrupted, my tone dropping an octave into a razor-sharp whisper. "Or, alternatively, you can open that manila envelope sitting right next to the bill."
Beatrice stared at the thick manila envelope as if it were a venomous snake coiled on the table. Her wealthy friends were suddenly shifting uncomfortably in their seats, whispering amongst themselves, sensing that the glamorous free lunch had just morphed into a public execution.
"What... what is this?" Beatrice stammered, her voice losing all its booming arrogance.
"That," I smiled coldly, "is the itemized audit of every single dollar your son embezzled from my business accounts over the last twelve months to fund his apartment lease, his designer shopping sprees, and his mistress. And right behind it is a certified copy of the emergency asset-freezing injunction filed this morning by my corporate attorneys."
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The silence that followed was absolute. You could hear the hum of the commercial refrigerators all the way from the kitchen.
Beatrice stopped breathing. The trap had finally slammed shut, and she was sitting right in the middle of it.
