Chapter 3 - The Feast of Fools
The dining room of Lumina transformed into a theater of extravagant decadence. Gavin and our front-of-house team moved with military precision, executing my silent orders with a grim, professional satisfaction.
The tables groaned under the weight of culinary excess. Massive seafood towers piled high with Maine lobster tails, colossal tiger prawns, and fresh Kumamoto oysters sat alongside platters of seared A5 Miyazaki Wagyu beef, truffle-infused risotto, and delicate pans-seared diver scallops bathed in a saffron-vanilla emulsion.
Beatrice was in her element. She sat at the center of the long table like an empress presiding over a conquered province, gesturing grandly with a silver-plated butter knife as she recounted exaggerated stories of her son’s supposed business brilliance.
"Lucas is currently spearheading a multi-million-dollar commercial acquisition downtown," Beatrice announced loudly, leaning back in her velvet-upholstered chair as a terrified busboy poured more of our locked-cellar 2015 Bordeaux into her crystal glass. "He practically runs the entire firm now. The senior partners wouldn't dare make a move without consulting him first."
One of her friends, a woman draped in enough gold jewelry to sink a small dinghy, sighed enviously. "Oh, Beatrice, you are so blessed. Having a son who is both a financial genius and so devoted to his family. And Camilla is so lucky to have him supporting her little culinary hobby."
"Well, someone has to keep her grounded," Beatrice agreed with a condescending sniff, waving a dismissive hand. "She has zero head for business. If it weren't for Lucas managing the backend finances and protecting her from her own impulsiveness, this place would have gone under within six months."
I watched from the service station near the kitchen doors, a cold, hard smile playing at the corners of my mouth. Financial genius. Right.
Just then, Gavin walked over, holding a tablet displaying our real-time POS system calculations. His eyes were wide with a mix of disbelief and sheer wicked glee.
"Camilla," he whispered, holding the screen out so I could see the running tally. "The food alone has hit eighteen thousand. We've cracked open four bottles of the 2015 Bordeaux at twelve hundred a pop. Plus side dishes, artisanal caviar service, and the gold-leaf chocolate soufflés they demanded for dessert... we are currently sitting at twenty-eight thousand, four hundred and fifty dollars. And they haven't even ordered coffee yet."
"Let them have the Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee," I replied calmly. "And bring out the miniature artisan macaron towers on the house. I want this to be a meal they will literally never forget."
Deciding it was time for the main event of psychological warfare, I picked up one of our most exclusive, locked-cellar bottles of Pinot Noir—a 2012 Domaine de la Romanée-Conti that retailed at two thousand two hundred dollars a bottle—and walked purposefully out toward Beatrice’s table.
The conversation at the table stuttered to a halt as I approached. I didn't look at the other women; I kept my eyes locked directly on Beatrice’s suddenly wary expression.
"Allow me, Beatrice," I said smoothly, my voice dripping with honeyed politeness as I reached down and began pouring the deep, ruby-red liquid into her crystal glass with meticulous, agonizing slowness.
Beatrice blinked, momentarily startled, before her trademark arrogance rushed back in to fill the void. She puffed up her chest, determined to score points in front of her audience.
"Well, would you look at that!" Beatrice crowed to her friends, leaning forward so they could all witness her supposed dominance. "Even our celebrated chef isn't above waiting on tables when she knows who the real boss is. Some people simply understand their place in the food chain."
A few of the women chuckled nervously, though several exchanged deeply uncomfortable glances. One woman—a dignified-looking lady in a navy St. John suit—frowned, looking between Beatrice and me with obvious unease. "She's clearly a talented chef," the woman noted defensively. "Although she hardly seems like an employee who answers to anyone."
Beatrice flicked her manicured hand dismissively, scoffing. "Oh, nonsense! Camilla has always preferred manual labor to anything else. Some people simply feel most comfortable serving their betters."
I kept my composure, maintaining a radiant, plastic smile until the glass was filled to the exact brim. I set the bottle down gently on the white linen tablecloth, right next to a silver bread basket.
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Then, fueled by the expensive wine and the heady intoxication of her own imagined supremacy, one of Beatrice’s closest companions—a woman named Eleanor whose husband owned a local car dealership—tilted her head and casually dropped a conversational grenade right onto the table.
"By the way, Beatrice, how is Lucas doing? I haven't seen him at the country club tennis courts lately. John mentioned he's been working crazy hours."
