Chapter 3 - The Empty TableThe silence in the Wellington was so dense you could hear the soft hiss of the gas candles along the walls.
Greg’s face went from flushed red to a pale, sickly gray. His eyes darted from Dante to the two massive security guards standing behind him, then down to the black titanium card resting on Khloe’s table. He was a lawyer; he knew when a man possessed the kind of wealth that could rewrite local ordinances over a phone call.
“You’re… you’re throwing us out?” Lexi gasped, her voice losing its delicate, practiced edge, rising into a shrill squeak. “Greg, do something! Who does this guy think he is?”
“Lexi, shut up,” Greg muttered, his hand catching her wrist, his fingers shaking. He looked back at Dante, trying to muster some of his former courtroom dignity. “Mr. Salvatrici… I think there’s been a misunderstanding. We were simply concerned about the… the standard of decorum in the room. We didn't mean any disrespect.”
“You insulted her,” Dante said, his voice dropping into a register that made the security guard near the door shift his weight. “You mocked her body. You tried to humiliate her because she had the courage to sit in a room that you think belongs to people like you. I don't like men who hide behind their fathers’ names to bully women, Mr. Tanner. It shows a distinct lack of foundation.”
Dante tilted his head toward the door.
“If you are still standing in this room in thirty seconds, my associates will assist you to the curb. And I assure you, they do not use the service elevator.”
Greg didn't wait for the countdown. He grabbed Lexi’s purse, his chair scraping loudly against the floor as he turned and practically fled toward the coat check, Lexi scurrying behind him like a frightened bird.
Mr. Beaumont stood frozen, his face white, his hands trembling against his trousers.
“Mr. Beaumont,” Dante said, not looking at him. “Go to the office. Prepare the transitional paperwork. And then pack your things. Your services are no longer required at the Wellington.”
“Mr. Salvatrici, please—”
“You have twenty minutes,” Dante said.
The general manager bowed his head, his shoulders slumped as he scurried away toward the rear office, leaving the dining room completely silent.
Dante stood by Khloe’s table for a long moment. The anger that had defined his features during the confrontation vanished, replaced by a quiet, observant curiosity. He looked at her hand, which was still resting on the table, her emerald velvet sleeve slightly crumpled.
“May I sit?” he asked.
Khloe looked up at him. Her heart was hammering so hard she could feel it in her ears. She had spent three years preparing herself for the quiet, polite cruelty of people like Greg. She had never prepared herself for a man who bought a thirty-million-dollar restaurant just to throw her ex-boyfriend out of it.
“I… yes,” she whispered.
Dante pulled out Greg’s abandoned chair and sat down. He didn't slouch; his posture was perfect, his large hands resting flat on the table, his pale gray eyes scanning her face with a gentleness that didn't match the scar on his cheek.
“You’re Khloe,” he said. It wasn't a question.
“Yes,” she said, swallowing. “How did you…”
“I heard him say your name before the manager arrived,” Dante said. He gestured toward her plate of scallops. “You should eat. They’re getting cold.”
Khloe looked down at her plate. She picked up her fork, her fingers still shaking slightly, but as she took a bite of the seared scallop, the rich, buttery flavor hit her tongue, and she realized she hadn't eaten all day. She chewed slowly, her eyes remaining fixed on Dante, who watched her with an expression of quiet satisfaction.
“Why did you do that?” she asked after she swallowed. “You don't know me. You just spent a fortune to buy a restaurant because a junior partner was being a jerk.”
“I’ve wanted to buy this place for six months,” Dante said, a faint, dry humor in his voice. “The former owners were old money who refused to adapt. You simply gave me the motivation to complete the transaction tonight.”
He leaned in slightly, his shoulders blocking out the rest of the dining room, creating a small, private sanctuary of light and warmth around her table.
“And besides,” Dante added, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur. “I don't like seeing beautiful things treated with disrespect. Especially on their birthday.”
Khloe’s breath caught. “How did you know it was my birthday?”
Dante smiled—a small, slow movement of his lips that made the scar on his cheek soften. “There’s a small velvet box on the chair next to you. It has a card with a candle drawn on it. And you’re sitting alone in Chicago’s most expensive restaurant in an emerald dress that looks like it was designed specifically to make every other woman in this room look like an afterthought. It wasn't a difficult calculation, Khloe.”
For the first time in seventy-five minutes, Khloe let out a small, genuine laugh. The tension in her shoulders finally dissolved, her velvet dress shifting as she leaned back against her chair.
May you like
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“The pleasure is entirely mine,” Dante said. He raised his hand, gesturing to a nearby waiter who was standing ten feet away, terrified to approach. “Bring this lady a fresh glass of Cabernet. The good bottle from the private cellar. And cancel her bill. She is the guest of honor tonight.”
