WHEN THE BILLIONAIRE’S WIFE CALLED THE WAITRESS “ILLITERATE,” SHE PICKED UP A PEN AND DESTROYED THEIR PERFECT WORLD

“Of course,” Casey replied.

“And the real menus,” Cynthia added with a dismissive flick of her hand, as if shooing a fly.

There was only one menu. Casey knew that. Cynthia knew that too. The demand was not about information. It was about reminding someone else where they stood.

Casey brought the water exactly as requested, Preston’s scotch, and the menus printed in traditional French with discreet English descriptions below each dish. Maison Étoile considered it part of its charm. Cynthia considered it an act of aggression.

In the dim candlelight, Casey watched her struggle. Cynthia shifted the menu closer, then farther away. Her mouth tightened. Vanity warred with practicality. Reading glasses, apparently, were unacceptable because they suggested time had touched her.

“Preston,” she muttered.

He kept typing.

“What is this?” Cynthia hissed, pointing to a line she clearly could not parse. “And don’t tell me it’s veal. I refuse to eat baby animals.”

Casey leaned slightly closer, voice gentle. “That’s coq au vin, Mrs. Ashford. Braised chicken in red wine with mushrooms and lardons.”

Cynthia’s face changed by almost nothing, but Casey saw it. Embarrassment. Then anger, because embarrassment needed somewhere to go.

She pointed again. “And this one? Gratin dauphinois. That’s the fish, right? Dolphin?”

A few people at nearby tables glanced over.

Casey kept her expression neutral with effort. “No, ma’am. It’s a potato dish. Cream, garlic, thinly sliced potatoes baked until tender.”

Cynthia shut the menu with a crack.

“Why is this place so pretentious?” she demanded. “Why can’t you people just write chicken and potatoes?”

“It is a French restaurant,” Casey said evenly. “The terms are standard.”

“Standard?” Cynthia let out a laugh sharp enough to peel paint. “You think you’re smart, don’t you? Standing there in your little apron, correcting me.”

“I’m just answering your question.”

“You’re being condescending.”

Across from her, Preston finally looked up, though not from concern. From boredom. The way a man might glance at rain on a window.