“It’ll do for now.”
When she tried to describe the evening’s specials, he cut her off mid-sentence:
“Enough with the pleasantries,” he said sharply. “We’re ready to order. I have a meeting in twenty minutes. I’ll have the Wagyu beef, seared rare, black garlic sauce on the side. No garnish, and a side of truffle mash. Make it fast.”
Her heart beat a little faster. “The Silver Swan” took pride in its elegant plating, where everything was carefully garnished, but she had no choice.
“Of course, sir,” she said, keeping her expression neutral.
Turning to Arthur Welch, she politely asked for his order. He looked slightly uncomfortable, as if he disliked the tension but was used to following Sterling’s lead. He ordered the bouillabaisse and thanked her politely.
When Sarah retreated to the kitchen to put in the orders, she felt a tightness in her chest. The other staff members were whispering about the scene at Table Nine. Chef Elena was particularly on edge, personally overseeing Sterling’s dish to ensure that if this billionaire decided to invest in a new culinary venture, “The Silver Swan” would be at the top of his list. Little did she know, the real drama was just beginning.
As Eugene Sterling sipped his expensive Riesling, the rest of the dining room remained a whirlwind of refined activity. Servers balanced silver trays, the pianist’s melodies drifted through the air, and wealthy patrons spoke in hushed tones. But from Table Nine, the tension radiated outward like ripples in a pond.
Sarah stayed busy checking her other tables. She refilled a champagne glass for the anniversary couple, answered a question about sauce pairings for the art dealers, and politely asked the solo diner if he’d like dessert. Despite juggling multiple requests, she couldn’t shake the feeling of impending dread. She knew she’d have to return to Table Nine soon, and the thought made her stomach churn.
When Chef Elena rang the bell signaling that the orders for Table Nine were ready, Sarah quickly gathered the plates with practiced efficiency. The Wagyu beef glistened, perfectly seared, with the black garlic sauce in a small ramekin on the side. The truffle mash was elegantly swirled, though the garnish was absent as ordered.
Chef Elena wasn’t happy about it, but Sterling’s demands were absolute. Beside it sat the bouillabaisse—fragrant with saffron, tomatoes, and delicate seafood. Sarah stepped out of the kitchen and made her way across the floor, head held high.
Approaching Table Nine, she carefully placed the Wagyu in front of Sterling, then set the bouillabaisse before Arthur Welch.
“I hope you enjoy your meal,” she said softly, stepping back to maintain the required professional distance.
For a few minutes, Sterling picked up his silverware and began to eat, ignoring Sarah completely. She almost expected him to bark a complaint about the temperature or the presentation, but to her surprise, he seemed too preoccupied with his own thoughts to speak. Instead, she noticed Arthur’s subtle nod of approval at the bouillabaisse and felt a slight sense of relief.
But just as she thought she might get through the service unscathed, Sterling’s face hardened. He set his fork down, leaned back in his chair, and pushed the plate away with a sharp clatter.
“Waitress!” he barked, looking directly at Sarah for the first time.
Her heart skipped a beat at his commanding tone, but she approached, keeping her face composed.
“Yes, sir,” she replied, trying not to let her anxiety show.
Sterling pointed at the steak, his face dark.
“This is raw,” he growled. “I asked for seared rare, not blue. Are you trying to poison me?”
