Livia’s heart sank. VVIP meant strict protocols, no eye contact unless spoken to, and usually terrible tips, because the super-rich often forgot that the people serving them needed to eat. “Who is it?” she asked, tying her apron tighter. Preston leaned in, his eyes wide with a mix of reverence and terror. “Viktor Molnar.”
The name hung in the air. Even Livia, who could not afford a cable subscription, knew who Viktor Molnar was. He was the steel wolf of Budapest. He controlled shipping lanes, tech conglomerates, and allegedly half the politicians in Eastern Europe. He was known for two things: his ruthless efficiency in business, and his absolute intolerance for incompetence. Rumor had it he once bought a hotel chain just to fire a concierge who lost his luggage. “The Molnar?” Livia asked, her throat dry. “The same,” Preston hissed. “He’s in London for the G20 summit sidelines. He chose us. If this goes well, the Kensington Royale gets a Michelin-star recommendation from his private circle. If it goes badly, I will personally ensure you never work in this city again. Stay out of the East Wing, Young. You’re on the terrace. I’m putting Gregory on Molnar’s table. Gregory actually has class.”
Livia nodded, swallowing her pride. Gregory was the head waiter, a man who polished his shoes between courses and spoke with a fake French accent he thought sounded sophisticated. He was Preston’s pet. “Understood,” Livia whispered.
Service started normally. The terrace was filled with the usual crowd, tourists celebrating anniversaries and minor influencers taking photos of their appetizers. Livia moved with practiced efficiency, pouring wine, crumbing tables, and smiling until her jaw ached. But her mind was on the rent. She calculated the tips in her head. Table twelve left ten percent. Table fourteen left fifteen. It was not enough. She was still short.