800 words. The restaurant buzzed like a hive on the brink of chaos. Waiters circled the dining floor like choreographed dancers, swift, silent, and efficient.
Every seat was filled. The clink of glasses, the rustle of napkins, and the quiet hum of polite conversation intermingled with the subdued notes of live piano music. Sophia’s section for the night was originally Tables, Five, Six, and Seven, none of them especially important.
Table Five was a couple celebrating their twentieth wedding anniversary. Tables was occupied by a solitary diner who was more interested in reading his thick biography of Winston Churchill than in socializing. Table Seven was a small group of art dealers, politely discussing an upcoming auction.
Sophia had just successfully delivered amuse-bouches, a trio of delicate canapés, to each table without incident. So far, so good. Then came the surprise.
Julian, the waiter assigned to Table Nine, slipped in the kitchen. It happened so fast he was carrying a tray of champagne flutes headed for the VIP section when a stray garnish of microgreens fell to the floor, causing him to lose his footing. Julian tumbled flutes and champagne, crashing in a spectacular, sparkling arc.
He twisted his ankle badly. The maitre d rushed in, anxious and pale, while Chef Lemaire let out an audible gasp from behind the pass. In that frantic moment, the maitre d scanned the restaurant for a suitable replacement.
Another server had just started her break. Another was bogged down with a twelve-top in the opposite corner. His gaze landed on Sophia.
Sophia, he said quickly, You’re up? She blinked, heart pounding. She was nervous, but the unspoken rule at Le Papillon was unyielding. You never question an order, especially in front of guests.
She nodded curtly, found an open tray, and prepared herself to serve Ethan Caldwell, reclusive billionaire rumored to be as demanding as he was powerful. Taking a deep breath, she approached table nine. Ethan Caldwell was no older than forty-five.
Tall and broad-shouldered with neatly styled salt and pepper hair, he wore a custom-tailored navy suit with a subtle pinstripe that probably cost more than a year of Sophia’s rent. His wrist sported a watch that gleamed with understated opulence, something Swiss, no doubt. Next to him sat a business associate, slighter in build, equally well-dressed, whose name Sophia would later learn was Aaron Welsh.
Surrounding them were two bodyguards, seated at separate tables attempting to be inconspicuous, but failing miserably, given their matching black suits and earpieces. Sophia approached, posture aligned, eyes calm, a faint smile etched on her lips. Good evening, she said, voice steady.
Welcome to Le Papillon. My name is Sophia, and I’ll be taking care of you tonight. May I start you with our signature cocktails, or would you prefer to see the wine list? Ethan glanced at her, barely acknowledging her presence.
She could see the flicker of annoyance in his steel-gray eyes, presumably due to the minor commotion with the champagne fiasco. Aaron Welsh offered a polite smile, but Ethan said nothing. Wine list, he muttered.
Make it quick, and if you have a good vintage of Riesling, bring that. He didn’t look up from his phone fingers flying across the screen. Sophia nodded and hurried to fetch the wine list, ignoring the knot forming in her stomach.
She reminded herself that as a server, her job was to remain calm, professional, and gracious, no matter who sat at the table. This was the unwritten credo she and her colleagues lived by daily. Be invisible when needed, be supportive when invited, and always maintain composure.
She took a mental note to check the cellar for the recommended Riesling that Chef Lemaire had raved about. Perhaps it might please him and brighten his mood. Returning to table nine, she carefully offered the list.
We have an excellent Riesling from the Mosel Valley, she suggested in her best polite tone. It’s a 2001 vintage quite rare, with notes of peach apricot and a mineral finish. Head chef Corinne Lemaire speaks highly of it.
I think it would pair beautifully with tonight’s specials. Ethan paused, then tossed the wine list aside as if it were a distraction. He hadn’t once made direct eye contact yet.
Fine. Bring it, he snapped. But let’s not waste time with the cheap stuff.
I can pay for quality. Sophia nodded, forced a mild smile, and stepped away. In the brief moment she spent fetching the bottle and retrieving the correct glassware, she felt a pang of anxiety.
There was nothing unusual about demanding guests, some even borderline hostile. But there was an aura around Ethan Caldwell, an electricity in the air that made her uneasy. Perhaps it was his wealth, or the swirl of rumours about his intimidating personality, or maybe just the fact that she was new to serving high-profile clients at Le Papillon.
Either way, she knew one misstep could lead to a nightmarish shift. She meticulously carried out the bottle presentation showing Ethan the label. He waved it off impatiently, allowing her to pour a small sample.
He took a sip, pursed his lips, and nodded curtly. So far, so good. When she attempted to describe the evening’s specials, though he cut her off mid-sentence.
Stop wasting my time with pleasantries, he said sharply. Can we just order? I have a meeting in twenty minutes. Bring me the wagyu beef, seared rare black garlic sauce on the side, no garnish and a side of truffle mashed potatoes.
Make it happen quickly. Her heart quickened. Le Papillon prided itself on elegant plating, all meticulously arranged with garnishes and accompaniments.
But she had no choice. Of course, sir, she said, keeping her face neutral. Turning to Aaron Welsh, she politely inquired what he’d like to order.
He looked deeply uncomfortable, as though he disliked the tension, but was used to following Ethan’s lead. He ordered a bouillabaisse and politely thanked her. As Sophia disappeared into the kitchen to place their orders, she felt the tension throbbing in her chest.
Other staff members whispered about the scene at table nine. Chef Lemaire was particularly anxious personally tending to Ethan Caldwell’s meal, wanting to ensure that if this plumed billionaire ever decided to invest in a new gastronomic venture, Le Papillon would be the first on his list. Unbeknownst to her, the real drama was only just beginning.
While Ethan Caldwell sipped his prized Riesling, the rest of Le Papillon’s dining room remained a swirl of refined activity. Waiters delicately balanced silver-domed trays, the pianists’ melodic tunes floated on the air, and well-heeled patrons murmured amongst themselves. Yet there was an undercurrent of tension creeping outward from table nine, like ripples on a pond.
Sophia was busy checking on her other tables. She refilled a glass of champagne 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 escape the looming sense of dread. She knew she would have to return to Ethan Caldwell’s table soon, and her stomach twisted at the thought. When Chef Lemaire rang the bell indicating that table nine’s dishes were ready, Sophia quickly gathered the plates with practiced efficiency.
The Wagyu beef glistened expertly, seared with the black garlic sauce in a small ramekin on the side. The truffle-mashed potatoes were piped elegantly, though the garnish had been omitted as requested. Chef Lemaire had not been pleased, but Ethan’s demands were absolute.