Every seat was taken. The clink of crystal, the rustle of linen, and the low hum of polite conversation mixed with the soft notes of the piano. Sarah’s section for the evening consisted of tables five, six, and seven—none of which were particularly high-stakes.
At table five, a couple was celebrating their twentieth anniversary. At table six, a solo diner was more interested in a thick biography of Winston Churchill than the menu. At table seven, a small group of art dealers was quietly discussing an upcoming auction.
Sarah had just successfully served the amuse-bouche to each table without a hitch. So far, so good. Then, the unexpected happened.
Jerry, the server assigned to Table Nine, slipped on his way back to the kitchen. It happened in a flash: he was carrying a tray of champagne flutes for the VIP area when he stepped on a stray piece of garnish and lost his footing.
Jerry went down, and the glasses shattered in a spectacular spray of crystal and foam. He had badly wrenched his ankle. The maître d’ rushed over, pale with concern, while Chef Elena gasped from behind the line.
In that tense moment, the maître d’ scanned the room for a replacement. Another server was on a break. A third was tied up with a party of twelve in the far corner.
His eyes landed on Sarah.
“Sarah,” he said quickly, “you’re up.”
She blinked, her heart starting to race.
She was nervous, but the unwritten rule at “The Silver Swan” was absolute: never question an order, especially in front of the guests. She gave a short nod, grabbed a fresh tray, and prepared to serve Eugene Sterling—the man they said was as demanding as he was powerful. Taking a deep breath, she approached Table Nine. Sterling was in his mid-40s, tall and broad-shouldered, with perfectly groomed salt-and-pepper hair.
He wore a bespoke navy pinstripe suit that likely cost more than Sarah’s annual rent. On his wrist was a watch—sleek, understated, and undoubtedly Swiss. Beside him sat a business associate, a thinner but equally well-dressed man Sarah later learned was Arthur Welch.
They were flanked by two security guards at nearby tables, trying to look inconspicuous but failing due to their identical black suits and earpieces. Sarah approached with a straight back and a calm gaze. A professional smile touched her lips.
“Good evening,” she said, her voice steady. “Welcome to The Silver Swan. My name is Sarah, and I’ll be taking care of you tonight. Would you like to start with our signature cocktails, or would you prefer to see the wine list?”
Sterling glanced at her, barely acknowledging her presence. She noticed the irritation in his steel-gray eyes, likely from the earlier commotion with the champagne. Arthur Welch gave a polite nod, but Sterling said nothing at first.
“The wine list,” he muttered, “and make it quick. If you have a decent Riesling, bring it.”
He didn’t look up from his phone, his thumbs moving rapidly across the screen. Sarah nodded and hurried to retrieve the wine list, ignoring the knot in her stomach.
She reminded herself that her job was to remain calm, professional, and gracious, no matter who was in the chair. It was the code she lived by: be invisible when necessary, be helpful when asked, and always keep your cool. She made a mental note to check the cellar for the Riesling Chef Elena had been raving about.
Maybe that would help set a better tone for the evening. Returning to Table Nine, she carefully presented the wine list.
“We have an exceptional Riesling from the Mosel Valley,” she suggested in her most professional tone. “It’s a rare 2001 vintage with notes of peach and apricot and a crisp mineral finish. Chef Elena recommends it highly. I think it would pair beautifully with tonight’s specials.”
Sterling paused, then brushed the wine list aside as if it were a distraction. He still hadn’t looked her in the eye.
“Fine, bring it,” he snapped. “But don’t waste my time with the cheap stuff. I expect quality.”
Sarah nodded, forced a small smile, and stepped away.
In the brief moment it took to retrieve the bottle and the correct glassware, a sense of unease settled over her. Demanding guests were nothing new, but there was a specific aura around Eugene Sterling—an electric tension that made her skin crawl. Maybe it was the wealth, or the rumors of his temper.
Either way, she knew one mistake could turn the shift into a nightmare. She performed the wine presentation meticulously, showing Sterling the label.
He gave an impatient wave, allowing her to pour a small sample. He took a sip, pursed his lips, and gave a curt nod:
