Genevieve Laurent did not even spare him a glance. She kept her focus on Eve, her smile warm and genuine. “Excellent. We have much to discuss.”
“This is insane,” Damian shrieked, his voice cracking. He took a lurching step toward Eve, his wet trousers squeaking. “You think you can just walk away? I’ll—”
“You will do nothing, Monsieur Thorne,” Antoine said. His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of a gavel. “You are no longer a concern of ours.” And he added, with a frosty edge, “You are no longer a concern of Mademoiselle Martin’s.”
Mr. Henderson, who had been hovering near the coat check like a terrified ghost, finally scuttled forward. “Mr. Thorne. Sir, perhaps we can get you a towel. A new pair of trousers. Our tailor—”
Damian spun on him. “You,” he bellowed. “You let this happen. You let your staff assault me and sabotage my business.”
“Sir, I—” Henderson flinched, but Eve saw something new in his eyes. The terror was still there, but it was mixed with a profound, bone-deep weariness. He was a man at the end of his rope. Eve looked at her former manager, a man who had only ever shown her stressed-out indifference. She felt a sudden, sharp pang of pity. She turned to Antoine. “Monsieur,” she said softly, in French, “Mr. Henderson is a good man. He was not at fault.”
Antoine’s gaze softened. He looked at Henderson, who was trembling, clearly expecting his own life to be over. Antoine gave a curt, aristocratic nod. “Madame Laurent and I are frequent diners. We will remember his discretion.”
It was a simple statement, but it was a shield. Damian Thorne’s power had evaporated. He could no longer ruin anyone.
“A car is waiting, Eve,” Genevieve said, gently touching her arm, guiding her toward the heavy glass doors. Eve took a step, then paused. She turned back. The entire restaurant was watching. The diners. The busboys. The other waitstaff. And standing behind the polished mahogany bar, Mark was holding a polishing cloth. He met her eyes. He did not cheer. He did not smirk. He just raised his glass, a silent, stunned cheers that said everything. Eve nodded once.
As she and her new employers stepped out onto the sidewalk, the cold November air felt like a baptism. A gleaming black Mercedes S-Class was idling at the curb. A chauffeur in a black suit opened the rear door.
“This is all happening very fast,” Eve murmured, the adrenaline beginning to wear off, leaving her hands shaking.
“The best things in life often do,” Antoine said, gesturing for her to get in. “We’ve taken the liberty of booking you a room at the Carlyle. It’s just a few blocks from here.”
Eve’s head swam. The Carlyle. A place she had only ever walked past. “But my apartment. My things. My roommates. I have nothing.”