Then Cynthia Ashford arrived.
Everyone in Manhattan’s hospitality orbit knew of Preston and Cynthia Ashford. Preston Ashford was one of those men whose name floated through financial newspapers with the chilly regularity of market reports. Hedge funds, private acquisitions, distressed assets, strategic restructurings. He was worth billions and seemed to enjoy none of it. People described him as brilliant, ruthless, and emotionally refrigerated.
Cynthia, on the other hand, was what people discussed at charity galas when the music got louder and the champagne loosened honesty. Preston’s second wife. Former catalog model. Beautiful in a severe, overcomposed way. Younger than him by more than twenty years. Famous for her wardrobe, her social-media following, and her ability to turn insecurity into public theater.
She had the particular kind of arrogance that always smelled faintly of fear.
Casey had served them once before. Cynthia had sent back sparkling water because the bubbles were “too aggressive.” On another visit she had complained that the bread knife looked “provincial.” Even the manager, Claude, who usually treated wealthy clients like minor royalty, went pale when he saw their reservation.
“Table Four is yours,” he whispered that rainy Tuesday night, shoving the leather wine list into Casey’s hands. “Please, Casey. Be careful. Very careful.”
Casey had almost laughed. Be careful was the anthem of the underpaid.
She walked to the booth anyway, shoulders straight, expression calm.
Preston Ashford sat on one side, dark suit perfect, attention fixed on his phone as though the room around him were only atmospheric decoration. Cynthia sat opposite him in a crimson gown that looked sculpted onto her body. She was checking her reflection in the back of a spoon.
“Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Ashford,” Casey said. “Welcome back to Maison Étoile. My name is Casey, and I’ll be taking care of you tonight.”
Preston barely looked up. “Scotch. Neat. Thirty years, if you have it.”
Cynthia snapped the spoon down. Her eyes swept over Casey from bun to shoes, taking inventory in the way powerful people often did when deciding how little respect to offer.
“I want still water,” she said. “From glass, not plastic. Room temperature. If I see condensation, I’ll send it back.”
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