“Look at her suggestions—they’re so professional.”
Professional?
Me, the rightful heir of a major restaurant group, who had hired a Michelin team at great cost to design this place, needed advice from an amateur food blogger?
Just because she’d written a few restaurant reviews and gained a couple hundred thousand followers, she thought she was some kind of culinary goddess?
I pushed the flimsy paper back toward her.
“The dinner: 1.28 million.”
Rachel’s smile froze on her face.
Eric’s brows furrowed.
“Sophia, what kind of joke is this?”
“What did we even eat that would cost so much?”
“Not much.”
I spoke slowly, my gaze sweeping over the dishes barely touched on the table.
“Mainly because of one bottle of wine.”
I snapped my fingers. The waiter understood instantly and brought over an empty bottle along with the receipt.
“An ’82 Domaine de la Romanée-Conti. Market price: 1.2 million.”
“Our restaurant is membership-only, and you’re my friend.”
“I gave you a discount—let’s call it an even million.”
“Add in the food and the 10% service fee.”
“That’s 1.28 million total. I even rounded down for you.”
Rachel’s face went pale.
She shot up to her feet, her voice shrill.