Chapter 3 - The Scene at the Table
“What is the meaning of this ridiculous stunt?” Theresa hissed, her voice rising an octave as the flush of public embarrassment crept up her neck. She stood up so abruptly her chair scraped loudly against the hardwood floor. “How dare you embarrass me in front of my guests!”
“There is no stunt, Theresa,” Elena’s voice cut across the room as she walked out from behind the pass, wiping her hands on a crisp white side towel. She approached the table with slow, unhurried steps, stopping opposite her mother-in-law.
The thirty-eight socialites sat frozen in their seats, clutching their crystal glasses like life rafts, their eyes darting nervously between the two women.
“You’ve ordered twenty-five thousand dollars worth of food and vintage reserve wine under the assumption that my restaurant is a charity kitchen for your social club,” Elena said calmly, her gaze steady and unyielding. “And since your son’s business accounts can no longer cover his mounting debts—or his apartments for his girlfriends—you’ll need to settle that balance before you leave.”
Theresa’s face twisted into an ugly, mask-like sneer of pure fury. She pointed a trembling, diamond-ringed finger at Elena’s chest. “You ungrateful little cheat! You think you can talk to me like this? I made you! Without our family name, you’d still be scrubbing greasy flattops in some dive bar downtown!”
“Your family name didn't buy a single brick of this building, Theresa,” Elena replied, her voice remaining dangerously low. “And as of three minutes ago, your son’s access to my business accounts has been permanently revoked by the county circuit court.”
Before Theresa could shriek another word, the glass front doors of Aura swung open with a sharp chink of the brass bell.
A tall man in a sharp charcoal suit walked into the foyer, holding a thick leather briefcase. It wasn't a diner; it was Michael Vance, Theresa’s husband—and more importantly, the senior partner of the city’s largest forensic accounting firm.
Michael stopped at the edge of the dining room, taking in the thirty-eight stunned women, the empty bottles of Opus One, and his wife standing over a twenty-five-thousand-dollar bill she couldn't pay.
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“Theresa,” Michael said, his voice tight with controlled panic. “What in God’s name are you doing here? I’ve been trying to call you for twenty minutes.”
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