Chapter 2 - The Feast of Fools
Within five minutes, the rhythm of my kitchen had completely changed. Instead of focusing on our regular reservations—the people who actually respected our craft and paid their tabs—my line cooks were thrust into a frantic, chaotic scramble to accommodate Beatrice’s royal court.
Through the pass, I watched the spectacle unfold.
Beatrice didn't even open her menu. She tossed it aside onto the floor with a dismissive flick of her wrist, looking up at Gavin with a haughty smirk.
“We don't need menus, young man,” Beatrice announced loudly, gesturing expansively to her flock. “Bring us your absolute finest. Start everyone off with the Beluga caviar service and a round of our welcome oysters. For the main course, I want thirty-nine orders of our dry-aged Tomahawk ribeye steaks, prepared medium-rare, paired with butter-poached Maine lobster tails.”
Gavin’s pen hovered over his notepad, his hand trembling slightly. “Madam... thirty-nine Tomahawk ribeyes? Our butcher only delivered twenty-four this week, and we have several reserved for our VIP evening diners—”
“I don't care about your inventory!” Beatrice interrupted, raising her voice so that the neighboring tables fell completely silent. “Do you know who I am? I am Beatrice Vance. This restaurant wouldn't even exist if my son hadn't financed it! Find the steaks, or I’ll have you fired before dinner service.”
Gavin took a slow, deep breath, maintaining his professional composure. He glanced over toward the kitchen pass, catching my eye. I gave him a microscopic nod.
“Very well, Mrs. Vance,” Gavin said smoothly. “We will source the remaining cuts from our sister restaurant down the block. What about wine?”
Beatrice beamed, leaning back in her chair and lifting her designer handbag onto the table.
“Wine? Oh, bring us your rarest reserve bottles. That 2015 Bordeaux—the Grand Cru. Open six bottles for every table cluster. And nothing cheap, mind you. My friends deserve the best.”
A chorus of adoring sighs rose from her friends.
“Oh, Beatrice, you are simply too generous!” cried a woman with heavy diamond earrings sitting to her left. “How does a woman afford such luxury? You must be rolling in wealth!”
Beatrice lifted her water glass, swirling the ice with an air of breezy aristocracy.
“Well, that’s what happens when you have a family restaurant,” Beatrice laughed musically, casting a pointed glance toward the kitchen doors. “You don't have to worry about trivial things like retail markup.”
I stood behind the stainless steel pass, listening to every word, feeling a cold, crystalline focus settle over my mind.
For the next two hours, my kitchen was a war zone. We scrambled, sweating over hot burners, searing massive cuts of beef, shucking hundreds of oysters, and plating expensive seafood dishes at a frantic pace. I personally plated every single dish that went out to Beatrice’s table, garnishing each plate with microscopic precision.
As I walked out into the dining room to deliver a tray of specialty truffle-infused risotto to one of her friends, I passed right by their table.
Beatrice was leaning in, gossiping loudly with three women who hung on her every word.
“...and honestly, I don't know how she manages it,” Beatrice was saying, shaking her head with a theatrical sigh. “Working day and night in this kitchen. She looks exhausted, doesn't she?”
“Well, where is Lucas today?” asked a woman in a bright pink pantsuit. “We haven't seen him at the country club in weeks.”
Beatrice leaned back, a smug, knowing smile playing on her lips.
“Oh, Lucas is doing wonderfully,” she replied, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “He’s so busy with his new consulting ventures. In fact, he’s been traveling a lot. He even has a beautiful, brilliant young woman who helps him manage his schedule—she’s completely obsessed with him, poor dear.”
My hands froze around the tray I was holding. My heart gave a violent, sickening thud against my ribs.
Another woman at the table chimed in, “And what about Camilla? Doesn't she mind him traveling so much?”
Beatrice shrugged dismissively, waving a jeweled hand in the air.
“Oh, Camilla doesn't care. She’s never home anyway. She lives at this restaurant. She wouldn't even notice if Lucas disappeared for a month.”
Laughter erupted around the table. Glasses clinked together in a toast.
“And besides,” Beatrice added with a conspiratorial wink, lowering her voice just enough to sound scandalous, “Lucas knows how to have fun.”
More laughter. More clinking glasses.
I stood paralyzed for a fraction of a second, the tray heavy in my hands.
Lucas knows how to have fun.
For three months, my life had been a slow-motion nightmare. For ninety days, I had been staring at my business account statements late at night after locking up Lumina, watching thousands of dollars vanish into thin air through unexplained wire transfers, luxury hotel charges in downtown Chicago, high-end jewelry purchases at Tiffany’s, and weekend rentals in Miami.
When I confronted Lucas, he looked me in the eye and swore on his mother’s life that it was corporate travel expenses for a new tech startup he was launching. He told me I was being paranoid, overworked, and hysterical.
He told me to mind my own business and stay in the kitchen.
And now, standing three feet away from his mother, I heard the truth echoing in her casual, malicious cruelty.
Beatrice knew about his affair.
Worse—she knew the money funding his secret life, his luxury hotel rooms, and his mistress was coming straight out of my business account. She knew I was being robbed blind, and she thought it was hilarious.
I didn't drop the tray. I didn't scream, and I didn't throw a plate of hot risotto across her face.
Instead, I plastered a bright, professional smile on my face, walked over to the table, and placed the truffle risotto down with a polite, “Enjoy your meal, ladies.”
Beatrice didn't even look up at me. She just waved her hand dismissively.
I walked back to the kitchen, took off my apron, walked over to Gavin, and whispered in his ear.
“Keep serving them whatever they want. Open the 1982 Château Lafite. Pour as much as they can drink.”
Gavin blinked, looking at me with wide, concerned eyes. “Camilla... that bottle is twelve hundred dollars a pop. They’ve already asked for four.”
“Let them have ten,” I whispered coldly. “Make sure every single bottle, every single ounce of caviar, and every single gram of truffle is logged onto their tab.”
“Understood,” Gavin said, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face.
May you like
Three hours later, the roaring party finally began to quiet down. The plates were cleared. The empty wine bottles were stacked like bowling pins across the extended table.
The laughter stopped entirely when Gavin walked over, holding a heavy black leather folder, and placed the bill gently in front of Beatrice.
