Chapter 1 - The Broken Crystal
Gregory leaned heavily against the wallpapered corridor, trembling so violently that the silver tray in his hands rattled against the wall. Tears spilled down the deep creases of his cheeks, catching the warm amber light of the Hawthorne’s hallway. Henri Duval appeared out of nowhere, his face the color of skim milk, his hands fluttering in useless panic as he grabbed Gregory by the shoulders to pull him toward the kitchen.
"Take off your apron, Gregory, just breathe," Henri hissed in an agonized whisper. "He's going to shut us down. He literally threatened to purchase the entire building by midnight just to throw our staff onto the pavement."
I looked down at the tray I was holding. Balanced on the heavy silver dome was a dry-aged wagyu ribeye, perfectly seared, resting beside a reduction of vintage port. It was worth more than two weeks of my grocery budget. Inside that dining room, the shouting had quieted, replaced by the lethal, suffocating hum of absolute power unchecked.
"Emma, don't you dare go in there," Henri warned, grabbing my forearm with clammy fingers. "We let his security team handle it. We pack up and pray he doesn't sue."
"Someone has to clear the broken glass, Henri," I said calmly. "And someone has to deliver his dinner. If we run away, he has every reason to tear this place apart."
Before Henri could physically bar my way, I turned the brass handle and stepped across the threshold into the Aster Room.
The scent of spilled vintage cabernet and shattered crystal hung thick in the air. A dark red stain was dripping down the hand-carved walnut paneling, pooling onto an antique Persian rug. Four corporate executives sat frozen around the oval mahogany table, their eyes glued to their expensive leather folders, terrified that even a misplaced breath would redirect the storm toward them.
At the head of the table stood Arthur Caldwell.
His charcoal suit jacket was draped over the back of an overturned armchair. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, his sleeves rolled to his forearms, displaying veins taut with fury. His jaw was locked tight, his breathing shallow and rapid. He looked like an apex predator waiting for an excuse to strike.
Beside his porcelain dinner plate lay an old, weathered brown leather notebook with frayed edges—a relic that looked completely out of place amid the silver cutlery and polished crystal.
Arthur turned his gaze toward the door. When he saw me—a five-foot-four waitress carrying a heavy plate and an extra linen napkin—his pale blue eyes flared with disbelief.
"Did I stutter when I told your manager to clear this floor?" he asked, his voice deceptively low, vibrating with an icy menace that made the hairs on my arms stand up. "Why are you still standing in front of me?"
I set the plate down squarely in the center of his placemat. Then, my eyes flicked to the frayed notebook.
May you like
"Your father never paid for his pie," I said.
The room went so dead silent you could hear the grandfather clock ticking in the foyer outside.
