Sophia swallowed hard. She knew for a fact that Chef La Mer’s cooking was impeccable. The internal temperature of that Wagyu would have been precisely what Ethan had asked for. But a server never argues in front of a guest. “I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” she said, voice measured. “I can have it taken back to the kitchen and cooked further to your liking.” He let out a mirthless laugh, loud enough to turn a few heads at nearby tables. “Cooked further. I shouldn’t have to repeat myself. This place is supposed to be top tier. You should know how to serve a steak properly.”
Sophia breathed in and out, steady. She reminded herself of little Kiki back home, of the rent that needed paying, of the tips she relied on. “I understand,” she said softly. “Let me fix this for you immediately.” “Well, I don’t want excuses,” Ethan snapped. “I want solutions. Now. And while you’re at it, bring another bottle of that Riesling, and hurry.” Aaron Welsh glanced at Sophia apologetically, but he said nothing.
The tension in the dining area thickened. Nearby patrons shifted uncomfortably, unsure whether to keep watching or pretend they had not noticed. Sophia felt her cheeks flush, but kept her posture poised. “Yes, sir,” she said, lifting the plate and turning to leave. Only then did the billionaire raise his voice to address the rest of the restaurant. “For a place like this to mess up a simple steak is ridiculous. Do you realize how much money is spent to dine here? You’d think they’d hire competent staff.”
A hush fell among the diners as Ethan’s outburst reverberated against the elegantly paneled walls. Murmurs rose among the crowd. Aaron placed a hand on Ethan’s shoulder, trying to calm him, but Ethan shrugged him off. Sophia’s ears burned. It was one thing to be berated quietly, but quite another to be humiliated publicly. Her composure slipped for a moment, a flash of hurt crossing her face. However, years of hardship had taught her to remain calm under provocation. She disappeared into the kitchen, asked Chef La Mer to cook the steak just a tad longer, and retrieved another bottle of Riesling. The chef was furious at Ethan’s accusation of rawness and questioned whether the man even understood what rare meant. Still, their hands were tied. The customer was always right, especially a billionaire who could make or break reputations.
Sophia returned with the updated Wagyu and the new bottle, carefully displaying it for Ethan’s approval. He gave no sign of courtesy, merely lifting his glass for a refill as she poured. Tension lines creased his forehead, and his voice dripped with disdain. She set the steak in front of him. “I hope this is to your satisfaction,” she said, biting back any edge in her tone. He glowered at her, but cut into the meat. He took a bite, then nodded curtly. “Finally,” he muttered. Then he added, “You should have done it right the first time.” His voice echoed. A few patrons stared openly now, while others pretended to be absorbed in their meals. The pianist continued playing, more softly, more hesitantly, trying in vain to maintain the ambiance.