Valerie returned with appetizers, balancing the heavy tray flawlessly despite the pain. She placed foie gras in front of Victor and a salad in front of Renee, then poured a 2015 Bordeaux—worth more than her father’s monthly care.
Victor stopped her mid-pour. He swirled the glass theatrically, sniffed, frowned.
“It’s spoiled.”
Valerie froze. She knew the wine. She had checked the cork herself.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said carefully. “It was just opened. It may need a moment to breathe.”
Victor slammed his hand on the table. Silverware rattled. The room fell silent.
“Are you contradicting me?” he snapped. “Do you know who I am? How much wine I buy? I don’t need a waitress with a fake accent explaining Bordeaux.”
This wasn’t a complaint. It was a performance.
“I’ll call the sommelier right away,” Valerie said.
“No,” Victor smiled thinly. “Don’t bother him—he’s with important tables. Take this away. Bring the menu again. And I don’t want the foie gras anymore—it looks like rubber.”
She cleared the table and walked to the kitchen, face burning.
The chef, Henri, tasted the sauce and rolled his eyes.
“Perfect. That man is an idiot.”
“He wants a reaction,” Valerie said quietly. “He wants me to break.”