— It was.
— What are you, the manager here?
— Not exactly. I own the place. This is my restaurant.
Al let out a sharp breath, completely speechless.
— Vera, — Liz’s voice was suddenly very soft, almost trembling. — You’re serious? This is the most exclusive spot in the city. Everyone says it’s owned by some incredibly successful, private developer named Vera Page-Ames.
— That would be me. Ames is my husband’s name. I kept Page for the business.
— Wait, your husband is… *the* Mark Ames?
— Yes.
— So the Ames Bakery Group… that’s yours too? — Liz’s face shifted into a mask of pure envy that made her diamonds look dull by comparison.
— It is. And our home is in Pinecrest Estates—the gated side, — Vera said evenly. — It turns out the “Scarecrow” ended up exactly where none of you are allowed to go.
— Why did you even come tonight? Just to rub our noses in it? — Greg grumbled, though he looked like he wanted to crawl under the table.
The appetite seemed to have left the group. Vera pushed her plate away and took a sip of her wine.
