Friday night. The air outside Le Bernardin was thick with perfume and exhaust.
Aisha stood on the curb, wringing her hands. She was wearing a red dress she had salvaged from the back of her closet-bold, defiant.
"He's late," Barry sneered, checking his Rolex. "Typical."
"Probably couldn't get a cab," Gretta laughed.
A car turned the corner.
It wasn't a cab. It was a battered Honda Civic from the early 2000s. The bumper was held on with duct tape. It sputtered and coughed as it rolled up to the valet stand, right behind a Ferrari.
The valet looked at it with pure horror.
The driver's door creaked open. Dominic stepped out.
He was wearing a suit. But it wasn't the Armani he wore to the board meetings. It was a polyester blend Aisha had found at a thrift store. The sleeves were slightly too short. The pants were a bit baggy.
He walked around and opened the passenger door for Aisha, bowing theatrically.
"My chariot awaits," he said.
Aisha wanted to die. But then she saw her father's face. Barry looked like he had swallowed a lemon.
She smiled. She took Dominic's arm. "Thank you, darling. Sorry we're late, I had to help Dominic jump-start his car. He borrowed it from a friend."
They walked into the restaurant. The Maître D', a man named Pierre who had known Dominic for ten years, looked up.
Pierre's eyes widened. He opened his mouth to say, "Monsieur Fie-"
Dominic made the slightest motion. A finger to his lips. A narrowing of the eyes.
Pierre froze. He swallowed. He looked at the cheap suit. He looked at Dominic's intense gaze.
"Party of... four?" Pierre asked, his voice trembling slightly.
"Bartlett," Barry barked. "I have a reservation."
"Of course," Pierre said. "Right this way."
He led them past the kitchen, past the noisy tables near the door... and straight to the prime window seat overlooking the garden. The table usually reserved for royalty.
Barry looked confused. "I didn't book the window."
"A cancellation," Pierre said smoothly, pulling out Aisha's chair. "Compliments of the house."
Barry puffed up his chest. "Finally, some recognition."
They sat down.
Dominic picked up the menu. It was entirely in French.
Cathie smirked. "So, Dominic. What are you having? The Escargots de Bourgogne? Or do you need pictures?"
Aisha opened her mouth to translate.
Dominic closed the menu. He looked at the waiter.
"I'll have the steak," he said loudly. "Well done. With ketchup."
Silence. Absolute, horrified silence.
Barry looked like he was having a stroke. Gretta covered her mouth.
The waiter-who also knew Dominic-hesitated for a fraction of a second, his professional smile tightening at the edges.
"An excellent choice, monsieur," the waiter said, his voice perfectly neutral.
Under the table, Dominic's hand found Aisha's. He squeezed it.
She looked at him. His eyes were dancing with mischief.
And suddenly, she realized. He wasn't stupid. He was playing them.
He was the conductor, and this was his orchestra.
Barry leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "So, Dominic. Tell me. What is your opinion on the current volatility in the Asian tech sector?"
It was a trap. A specific, complex question designed to humiliate.
Dominic took a sip of water. He set the glass down.
"Well, Barry," Dominic said, his voice dropping the goofy pitch and settling into a smooth baritone. "I'm no expert, of course. But I did have to listen to a client-a hedge fund guy-complain about it for an hour last week. He kept going on about the semiconductor shortage in Taiwan versus the regulatory crackdown on fintech in Shanghai. Said the whole thing was giving him an ulcer."
Barry's fork clattered onto his plate.
Dominic smiled. "Personally, I think he was overreacting."
The game was on.
