The dining room was a cavern. A mahogany table, long enough to seat twenty people, dominated the space.
Arnulfo sat at the head of the table. He was dressed in a charcoal suit now, crisp and immaculate. He looked like a king on a throne.
He didn't look up as Erline entered. He was reading a newspaper, a cup of black coffee steaming near his hand.
"Sit," he said.
A place was set for her at the complete opposite end of the table, five meters away. The distance was intentional. It was a canyon.
Erline sat. The silverware was heavy, pure sterling silver. It felt cold against her fingers.
The double doors to the kitchen swung open. A short, round man in a chef's uniform bustled out pushing a cart. He was sweating. This was Chef Pierre.
"Madame," Pierre murmured nervously. He placed a plate in front of her.
It was foie gras. A large, fatty lobe of liver, seared, sitting in a pool of dark reduction. Truffles were shaved over the top.
The smell hit Erline instantly. Rich, oily, and metallic. Her stomach, already churning from the stress and the residual drugs, lurched.
She stared at the plate. She saw the pink veins in the liver.
She didn't pick up her fork.
At the other end of the table, Arnulfo lowered the newspaper. The rustle of the paper was deafening in the silence.
"Not to your liking?" he asked. His voice carried effortlessly across the distance.
Erline shook her head slightly. She picked up the fork, her hand trembling. She tried to cut a piece, but her hand wouldn't cooperate. She put the fork down.
Arnulfo slammed the newspaper onto the table.
"I don't like waiting," he said. "And I don't like picky eaters."
He turned his gaze to the chef. Pierre was wringing his hands in his apron.
"Is this your Michelin standard, Pierre? Food that makes my wife look like she's going to be sick?"
Pierre went pale. "Monsieur Bond, it is the finest grade, flown in this morning from..."
"Shut up," Arnulfo said. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to.
"You're fired. Get out."
Pierre's eyes widened. "Sir, please. My mortgage... my daughter is in university..."
Arnulfo snapped his fingers. Two security guards materialized from the shadows of the hallway. They grabbed Pierre by the arms.
"No!" Pierre cried as they dragged him backward. "Please, Mr. Bond!"
Erline stood up, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. She reached out a hand, her mouth opening to protest. She couldn't let a man lose his livelihood because she was nauseous.
Arnulfo looked at her. His eyes were ice.
"Sit down."
Erline froze.
"If you don't eat it," Arnulfo said, gesturing to the plate, "the trust that pays for your Aunt Meredith's care will find itself under... immediate review. For fiscal irresponsibility."
The threat hung in the air. Collective punishment. It was the tactic of a dictator.
Erline slowly sank back into her chair. She looked at the foie gras. She thought of Aunt Meredith, helpless in that hospital bed.
She picked up her knife and fork. She cut a large piece. She stabbed it.
She put it in her mouth. The texture was soft, coating her tongue in warm grease. She chewed once and swallowed. It felt like swallowing a stone.
Arnulfo watched her, his chin resting on his hand. He looked fascinated by her misery.
"Good," he said. "Lesson one: Your actions have costs. Usually for other people."
He stood up and buttoned his jacket.
"I'm going to the office. I'll be back this evening to inspect your... performance."
He walked out without looking back.
The moment the front door slammed, Erline bolted from her chair. She ran to the nearest decorative trash can in the corner of the room and retched.
