Tiffany whispered something in Mark’s ear, a conspiratorial smirk curling her lips. As maître d’hôtel Jean-Pierre led them through the dining room, their path—of course—passed right by my table. With the clumsy grace of a bad actress, Tiffany “tripped,” spilling a full glass of icy water across my blouse and lap. The cold shock bit into my skin, but the chill in her eyes cut deeper.
“Oh my God! I’m so sorry,” she exclaimed, her voice dripping with syrupy, fake concern. “Must be these ridiculous heels.” She leaned in, her perfume cloying, her whisper venomous. “Then again, maybe a discarded woman should just stay home. Safer that way.”
Mark stood beside her, silent and small, guilt flickering briefly across his face. I said nothing. Years with him had taught me the strength of restraint. Calmly, I dabbed my blouse with a linen napkin. “No problem,” I said evenly. “Accidents happen.”
As Jean-Pierre escorted them to table twelve—the best VIP table in the house, one I knew they must have demanded—I quietly took out my phone. My hands were steady; my heart, cold as stone.
Their mistake was assuming I was a sad divorcée clinging to a life I no longer had. They didn’t know they had just insulted the queen in her own castle. I wasn’t a patron. I was the sole, silent owner of Ciel Restaurant Group, including this flagship—Le Ciel. The empire I built from the very settlement Mark thought would keep me quietly tucked away in the suburbs.
