Julia offered a small, apologetic smile.
“Just still water, please. Thank you.”
Gavin finally looked up from his inspection. His gaze landed on Eleanor, scanning her from head to toe. He didn’t look at her face; he wasn’t interested in her as a person. He looked at her cheap shoes, a dead giveaway of her financial status.
Then his eyes traveled up to her hands, reddened from hot plates and cleaning solutions. A contemptuous smirk twisted his lips as he made his judgment. He had placed her at the very bottom of his world’s hierarchy.
“Wait,” Gavin said just as Eleanor turned to get their order.
“Yes, sir?” she paused, bracing for impact.
“Make sure the glass is actually clean this time,” he said, loud enough for the neighboring table to hear. “Last time I was here, the stemware was cloudy. Unacceptable at this price point.”
“It’s so hard to find good help these days, isn’t it?” Eleanor felt a flush of heat rise up her neck at the unjust accusation. But she forced her expression to remain impassive.
“I will personally inspect the glasses for you, sir,” she replied quietly.
“See that you do.” He dismissed her with a casual wave of his hand, like swatting away a fly.
As she walked away, she heard him laugh behind her. A dry, barking sound devoid of genuine joy. He leaned toward Julia, continuing his lecture.
“You have to be firm with them, Julia, or they’ll walk all over you. It’s a power dynamic. You wouldn’t understand.”
Eleanor reached the service station, her knees feeling weak. Her hands were trembling slightly from the strain. She gripped the counter to steady herself.
“He’s a nightmare,” whispered Anton, the bartender, polishing a glass. “Last time, he left a one-dollar tip and tried to get the valet fired because it was raining.”
“I can handle him,” Eleanor said, though a knot of dread was tightening in her stomach. She’d dealt with rude customers before; it was part of the job. But there was something about Gavin Sterling, a predatory glint in his eyes that suggested he was bored.
And when men like Gavin got bored, they liked to play cruel games with people they considered beneath them. Twenty minutes later, the atmosphere at table one had shifted from merely tense to suffocating. Eleanor approached with the appetizers, moving with practiced silence.
She balanced the heavy tray on one shoulder with professional grace, her posture perfect despite the ache in her spine. She placed the foie gras in front of Gavin and a light salad in front of Julia.
“Enjoy,” she murmured, turning to top off their wine glasses.
She had brought a 2015 Château Margaux, a bottle that cost more than a month of her father’s care. Gavin held up a hand, sharply halting her movement. He swirled the wine already in his glass, sniffing it loudly and theatrically.
“It’s corked,” he announced, his voice carrying across the room. Eleanor froze, a chill running down her spine. She knew wine, thanks to her education and experience.
She had smelled the cork herself when she opened it at the service station, as required. The cork had been perfect. The wine was flawless, complex and rich.
“My apologies, sir,” Eleanor tried gently. “I opened it myself just a few moments ago. Perhaps it just needs a moment to breathe in the decanter to fully open up.”
Gavin slammed his palm on the table, making the silverware jump. The clatter drew the attention of other diners. The restaurant quieted for a moment. Julia flinched and shrank back in her chair.
“Are you arguing with me?” Gavin asked, his voice rising. “I said it’s corked! Do you have any idea who I am?”
“Do you know how much of this I buy in a month? I don’t need a waitress with a… what is that, a Midwest accent?… lecturing me on the notes of a Bordeaux.” He wasn’t just complaining about the wine.
He was performing, trying to establish his dominance in front of Julia by humiliating someone who couldn’t fight back. He was trying to look like a great connoisseur by publicly crushing the dignity of the staff.
“I’ll get the sommelier immediately, sir,” Eleanor said, feeling a lump form in her throat. Her voice was tight, but she held it together.
“No,” Gavin smiled, and it was not a pleasant sight.
A cruel, languid expression settled on his face.
“Don’t bother the sommelier. He has more important things to do. You can take this swill away and bring me the menu again. I’ve lost my appetite for the foie gras. It looks rubbery.”
Eleanor silently collected the plate, trying not to let her hands shake. She took the wine. She walked back to the kitchen, her face burning with humiliation and suppressed anger. In the kitchen, the head chef, a large man named Andre who had trained in Lyon, dipped a spoon into the returned sauce.
“Rubbery? The man’s an idiot. The texture is perfect.”
“He’s putting on a show,” Eleanor said, leaning against a cool stainless-steel counter. “He wants a reaction.”
“Don’t give him one,” Andre warned, wiping his hands. “Henderson is watching. If Sterling makes a scene, Henderson will fire you just to save face with a wealthy client. We all know how it works.”
Eleanor nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. She couldn’t lose this job. She needed the money from tonight’s shift. She returned to the table, menus in hand.
Gavin was leaning back in his chair, looking immensely pleased with himself. Julia looked utterly miserable, staring at her lap. “I’m sorry,” Julia mouthed silently to Eleanor when Gavin turned to look at his expensive watch.
Eleanor gave a barely perceptible nod of acknowledgment.
“So,” Gavin said, opening the menu but not looking at it. He stared directly at Eleanor. “I’m in the mood for something authentic tonight. Something truly French.”
“But reading these descriptions in English is so… pedestrian. It lacks the soul of the dish.” He smirked, setting his trap. “Tell me, do you speak French, dear?”
“This is a French restaurant, after all.”
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