Valerie recognized the name from credit card vouchers. Hedge fund executive. Famous not for returns, but for hostile takeovers and brutal lawsuits. New money—desperate to look old.
Behind him walked a woman in a deep red dress, beautiful but closed off, arms crossed like armor.
“This way, Mr. Sterling,” Evan stammered.
Victor didn’t acknowledge him. He dropped into the window-side table overlooking the city lights, spreading himself wide, elbows claiming territory. Power announced without words.
Valerie smoothed her apron and put on her professional mask.
“Good evening. Welcome to Le Laurier. My name is Valerie, and I’ll be taking care of you tonight.”
Victor didn’t look up. He inspected the silverware for flaws.
“Sparkling water. And bring the reserve wine list—the real one, not the tourist version.”
“Of course, sir.”
Valerie turned to the woman.
“And for you, miss?”
The woman offered a small, apologetic smile.
“Still water, please. Thank you.”
Victor finally looked up—but not at Valerie’s face. He scanned her name tag, her worn shoes, her reddened hands. A curl of disdain twisted his mouth.
“Wait,” he said loudly as Valerie turned away.
“Make sure the glass is actually clean this time. Last visit, the crystal was… cloudy. Hard to find competent staff these days, isn’t it?”
A few nearby tables glanced over.
Valerie felt heat rise up her neck but kept her expression neutral.
“I’ll personally inspect the glassware, sir.”
He waved her off like an insect.
As she walked away, she heard his dry laugh as he leaned toward the woman.
“You have to be firm, Renee. Otherwise, they get ideas. Power dynamics—you wouldn’t understand.”
At the service station, Valerie gripped the counter until her shaking hands stilled.
“That guy’s a nightmare,” muttered Tanya, the bartender. “Last time he tipped five percent and tried to get the valet fired because it was raining.”
“I can handle him,” Valerie said—though her stomach tightened. Victor Sterling wasn’t just rude. He had that bored predator look. And bored predators liked to play.
Twenty minutes later, the air at table one was suffocating.
Valerie returned with appetizers, balancing the heavy tray flawlessly despite the pain. She placed foie gras in front of Victor and a salad in front of Renee, then poured a 2015 Bordeaux—worth more than her father’s monthly care.
Victor stopped her mid-pour. He swirled the glass theatrically, sniffed, frowned.