Chapter 3 - The Audit Trail
The silence that fell over Beatrice’s table was absolute and deafening.
The thirty-eight society women stopped talking mid-sentence. The warm, buzzed glow of expensive wine seemed to evaporate from their faces instantly as Gavin stood there, hands clasped behind his back, waiting patiently.
Beatrice picked up the leather folder with a dismissive, haughty flick of her wrist, expecting a routine, modest slip—or better yet, a zeroed-out courtesy total with a handwritten apology note from me.
She opened the flap.
Her eyes scanned the printed total at the bottom of the page.
Then she stopped.
She blinked once. Twice. She pulled the paper closer to her face, adjusting her glasses, reading the numbers over and over again as if hoping English would suddenly turn into a foreign language.
$23,289.
Twenty-three thousand, two hundred and eighty-nine dollars.
Beatrice’s face drained of color, turning the shade of a spoiled turnip. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.
Slowly, shakily, she raised her head and looked across the dining room toward the kitchen pass.
I was standing there, leaning against the stainless steel counter, arms crossed over my chest, watching her with a calm, unblinking stare.
Beatrice stood up so fast her chair screeched loudly against the hardwood floor, making half the dining room jump.
“Camilla!” she shrieked, her voice cracking with pure panic. She marched across the dining room, her heels clicking furiously against the floor, clutching the bill in her trembling manicured hand like a weapon.
She slammed the paper down onto my prep counter, glaring at me with wide, furious eyes.
“Camilla… what is the meaning of this?!” she hissed, loud enough for nearby diners to hear. “This has to be a mistake! A sick, twisted joke! Twenty-three thousand dollars for a Saturday lunch? Are you out of your mind?!”
I didn't flinch. I didn't raise my voice. I simply reached down beneath the counter, picked up a thick, heavy manila folder bulging with printed documents, and calmly placed it right beside the bill.
“No, Beatrice,” I said, my voice cutting through the ambient noise of the restaurant like a surgical scalpel. “The bill is correct. Every single dollar, every ounce of caviar, every bottle of 1982 Château Lafite, and every single Tomahawk ribeye is accounted for down to the penny.”
Beatrice stared at the bill, then at me, her chest heaving beneath her designer trench coat.
“You expect me to pay this?!” she screeched, her face flushing a mottled red. “I am family! I brought thirty-eight of my closest friends here to support your business! You are supposed to comp our meals! Lucas told me—”
“Lucas doesn't own this restaurant,” I interrupted softly, stepping forward so that the height difference and my cold, unyielding stare forced her to take half a step back.
“And neither do you,” I continued, tapping my index finger against the thick manila folder resting on the counter.
Beatrice’s eyes dropped to the folder. Her arrogant, indignant expression flickered for a microsecond, replaced by a sudden, chilling flicker of dread.
“What... what is that?” she stammered, her voice dropping an octave.
“This,” I said slowly, sliding the folder across the steel counter toward her, “is a comprehensive forensic audit of every single financial transaction tied to my business accounts over the last ninety days.”
Beatrice didn't touch the folder. She looked at it as if it were a venomous snake coiled up and ready to strike.
“And the very first document inside that folder,” I added, my voice dropping into a low, lethal whisper, “has Lucas’s name printed right at the top. Along with his signature, his wire transfer codes, and the name of the boutique hotel in downtown Chicago where he’s been living a double life.”
The color drained entirely from Beatrice’s face. She staggered back another step, her hand flying to her throat.
“You... you don't know what you’re talking about,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the kitchen refrigerators.
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“Oh, I know exactly what I’m talking about,” I replied, opening the folder just an inch to reveal the first page, showing a bank letterhead and a high-resolution screenshot of a $14,000 wire transfer authorized by Lucas Vance.
“You thought you could rob me blind,” I said, looking straight into her terrified eyes. “You thought you could use my sweat, my tears, and my restaurant to fund your son’s mistress, his luxury vacations, and your own social vanity projects while treating me like a glorified cook. Well, the bill has arrived, Beatrice. And unlike your lunch, someone is finally going to pay for it.”
