Eve fought to keep her expression neutral. A 1990 Château Margaux. A five-thousand-dollar bottle of wine. “An excellent choice, sir,” she said softly. “And for the appetizers?”
“I just told you. The foie gras,” he repeated, louder this time.
“Of course, sir. For the entire table.”
“No,” Antoine, the older gentleman, interjected gently. “I am afraid my stomach is not robust. Perhaps the coquilles Saint-Jacques.”
“And you, Genevieve?”
“The potage Parmentier for me,” the woman said, smiling at Eve. “It is cold out.”
Damian looked annoyed, his carefully planned performance already off script. “Fine. Whatever. Just get the wine, and hurry.” He flapped his hand at Eve, a gesture of dismissal. She turned, her back rigid, and walked toward the sommelier station, the billionaire’s grating pronunciation of Margaux echoing in her ears. It was just the beginning of the assault.
The dinner progressed like a slow-motion car crash. Damian Thorne held court, his voice drowning out the delicate notes of the string quartet playing in the corner. He dominated the conversation, speaking of leverage, buyouts, and hostile takeovers. His guests, Antoine Dubois and Genevieve Laurent, were visibly reserved. They were from a different world, one where business was still, on some level, a human art form. Eve moved around the table like a shadow, refilling glasses, clearing plates, her presence so subtle she practically disappeared. It was this invisibility that allowed her to hear everything.
“The beauty of the deal, Antoine,” Damian was saying, swirling the five-thousand-dollar wine in his glass as if it were mouthwash, “is the labor flexibility. We move the primary workshops out of the Marais and into our new facility. Streamlined. Efficient.”
Genevieve Laurent set her fork down. “Monsieur Thorne, the workshops you speak of are ateliers,” she said, her voice cool. “They employ artisans who have trained for decades. Their families have worked that district for a century.”
“Artisans. Tradition.” Damian laughed, a short, barking sound. “That’s why you’re making two-percent margins and I’m making forty. You can’t frame tradition and hang it in a bank vault. We’ll retrain them. Put them in a call center. It’s the modern world.”
Antoine Dubois looked pale. “This is not what we understood.”
“It’s progress, Antoine.” Damian picked up the menu again, clearly wanting to change the subject back to something he could control. Spending money. “Let’s order the main course. I’m thinking the lobster. Homard.” He fumbled the word. “Eve,” he barked, snapping his fingers.