Viktor reached into his pocket. His leather wallet was soaked, but he pulled out a small laminated card. It was a private contact card, unadorned except for a single gold-embossed number. “Livia,” he said, stepping back into the lift with her. “Tomorrow, a man named Sterling— no, wait. Sterling is a fool. A man named Thomas will call you. He is my lawyer.” “I don’t need a lawyer,” Livia said, wiping her eyes. “I just need my deposit back from my landlord.” Viktor smiled, and for the first time, it reached his ice-colored eyes. “You don’t understand. You didn’t just save a company. You saved my family’s history. My mother’s home.” He stepped closer, ignoring the soot and the smell of the water. “Preston Giles will be looking for you. He will try to fire you for the sprinklers. Let him. In fact, let him yell. It will make the lawsuit more expensive for him.” “Lawsuit?” “I’m buying the restaurant, Livia,” Viktor said simply. “And I’m going to need a manager. Someone who speaks the language of the people, and the language of the sharks.” He handed her the card. “Don’t go back to the terrace. Go home. Take a hot bath. And Livia.” “Yes?” “Thank you for the stew. It was perfectly salted.”
Two weeks later, the rain had finally stopped, replaced by a crisp golden London morning. The street in front of the Kensington Royale was crowded with news vans. The headlines had been relentless. Apex Global CEO resigns amid fraud allegations. The steel wolf’s miraculous escape. Inside the restaurant, the atmosphere was different. The heavy, suffocating air of fear had been replaced by a cautious, electric curiosity. The staff stood in a line in the foyer, shoes polished, heads down. Preston Giles stood at the front, his face a ghostly shade of gray. He had spent the last fourteen days trying to call Viktor Molnar’s office to apologize, but he had been blocked at every turn. He was clutching a clipboard, his knuckles white. “Listen up,” Preston hissed to the staff. “The new owner arrives in ten minutes. We don’t know who it is. The holding company is private. But we know they are associates of Molnar. If any of you breathe wrong, you are finished. Especially you, Gregory. No fake accents today.”
Suddenly, a sleek black Bentley pulled up to the curb. The door was opened by a driver, and a woman stepped out. She wore a tailored navy suit that fit her perfectly. Her hair was swept back in a sophisticated bun, and she carried a leather briefcase that looked like it belonged in a boardroom. She looked like wealth, power, and intelligence personified. As she walked through the gold-rimmed doors, Preston bowed so low he nearly hit the floor. “Welcome, madam. Welcome to the Kensington Royale,” Preston chirped, his voice cracking. “I am Preston Giles, the manager. I have prepared a full briefing on our quarterly earnings, and—” The woman stopped. She looked at Preston, then slowly lowered her designer sunglasses. Preston’s jaw dropped. The clipboard slipped from his hand, clattering onto the marble. “Liv— Livia.” “It’s Ms. Young, Preston,” Livia said, her voice cool and steady. The staff gasped. Gregory looked like he wanted to melt into the floor. “You— you bought the place?” Preston stammered. “Mr. Molnar bought the place,” Livia corrected, walking past him and running a finger along the mahogany host stand. “I am the managing director of the hospitality wing, which means, effectively, I am your boss.”
She turned to face the stunned group. “There are going to be some changes. First, Jean-Luc is staying, but the staff stew is now a permanent fixture on the dinner menu. We’re calling it the Borderlands stew. It will be the most expensive thing on the menu, and ten percent of the proceeds will go to the local immigrant scholarship fund.” She then looked at Preston. “Second, Preston, you’re not fired.” Preston let out a sob of relief. “Oh, thank you, Livia. Thank you.” “However,” Livia continued, a sharp glint in her eye, “you are being demoted. You will be the new terrace waiter. You’ll be serving tourists and influencers. And if I hear that you’ve been rude to a single person, or if you ever make a waiter cry again, you’ll be cleaning the grease traps with a toothbrush.” She turned to the rest of the staff. “As for the rest of you, your wages are being increased by twenty percent, effective immediately. We are no longer a theater of wealth. We are a restaurant. We serve people. We don’t worship them.”