Chapter 2 - The Taste of Luxury
Within twenty minutes, the sprawling dining area of Lumina transformed into a monument of culinary excess.
My kitchen staff, though initially stunned by the sudden, massive influx of high-end orders, fell into the synchronized rhythm of elite professionals. Say what you will about the sudden chaos, but my line cooks were artists who took immense pride in their craft. If thirty-nine snobs wanted the finest food the Pacific Coast had to offer, they were going to get dishes executed with absolute perfection.
Towers of pristine seared scallops resting on beds of saffron risotto began flying out of the pass. Delicate tuna tartare garnished with Osetra caviar, thick cuts of A5 Wagyu steaks searing to medium-rare perfection, gold-leaf-infused chocolate desserts, and exceptional bottles of vintage wine were whisked across the polished oak floors by our frantic waitstaff.
The dining room buzzed with the clinking of crystal and the self-congratulatory laughter of women who had never worked a hard day in their lives.
Deciding it was time to play my part in the performance, I untied my kitchen apron, smoothed down my chef's jacket, and personally uncorked one of our most exclusive, locked-cellar bottles of Pinot Noir—a vintage priced at over a thousand dollars a bottle. I placed the bottle in a silver ice bucket, picked up a clean linen cloth, and walked out into the dining room toward Beatrice’s corner table.
As I approached, the conversation at the table dipped into a sudden, expectant hush. Beatrice looked up, her eyes locking onto mine with triumphant malice. She clearly thought I was coming to pay homage to her supreme social reign.
I smiled placidly, pouring a generous stream of the deep ruby wine into her crystal glass.
"Well, would you look at that!" Beatrice crowed loudly to her friends, leaning back in her chair with her arms crossed. "Even our celebrated chef isn't above waiting on tables when she knows who the real boss is."
A few of the women chuckled politely behind their manicured fingers, though a couple of the younger guests looked genuinely uncomfortable, shifting in their seats as the tension in the air thickened.
"She's clearly skilled," one woman observed defensively, eyeing my clean chef's coat. "Although she hardly seems like the owner of an establishment this impressive."
Beatrice flicked her manicured hand dismissively, as if swatting away an annoying gnat. "Oh, Camilla has always preferred manual labor to anything else. Some people simply feel most comfortable serving their betters. It's a humble background thing, you understand."
I kept my composure completely locked down, maintaining a smooth, professional smile on my face as I finished pouring the wine and wiped the rim of the bottle with my linen cloth. I did not snap. I did not let her poison touch my spirit. I simply stored every single syllable away in my mind, knowing that the bill waiting for her at the end of this meal would be the sweetest revenge imaginable.
Then, fueled by the expensive wine and the intoxicating fumes of her own self-importance, one of Beatrice’s closest companions casually steered the conversation toward my husband.
"How is Lucas doing lately, Beatrice?" she asked, taking a sip of the vintage Pinot. "I haven't seen him at the country club tournament for quite some time."
Beatrice’s face lit up with an expression of conspiratorial glee. She leaned forward across the white linen tablecloth, lowering her voice just enough to draw every ear at the table inward, yet keeping it loud enough for anyone nearby to overhear.
"Oh, my son is doing wonderfully!" Beatrice announced, her voice dripping with artificial pride. "Especially since he's been spending time with a delightfully charming, younger woman who makes his days vastly more interesting than domestic life ever could."
The ambient clinking of silverware across the surrounding tables abruptly stopped. The corner table went dead silent.
My fingers, resting on the neck of the wine bottle, tightened instinctively until my knuckles turned white.
Beatrice appeared thoroughly entertained by the shocked, wide-eyed faces surrounding her. She clearly assumed I was far too meek, far too absorbed in my kitchen duties, to ever confront her or cause a scene in my own establishment.
"Don't look so scandalized, darlings!" Beatrice laughed, waving her hand dismissively. "Camilla is always busy managing this place. She practically lives in the kitchen—she breathes convection ovens and inventory sheets. Surely a vibrant, successful man like Lucas deserves some enjoyment and affection outside of work, wouldn't you agree?"
One guest, a woman in an emerald silk blouse, looked deeply troubled. She glanced nervously from Beatrice to me, lowering her gaze when our eyes met. "But Beatrice... where on earth does he find the financial freedom to fund a second lifestyle and high-end socializing?"
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Beatrice raised her crystal glass, a triumphant smirk playing on her lips. She wore an expression of supreme self-satisfaction that made my stomach churn.
"From the restaurant's earnings, of course!" Beatrice announced, as if declaring a completely normal business practice. "He takes his cut straight from the top accounts every month. After all, we're all family, aren't we? What's hers is his, and what's his is ours!"
