At the bottom of the page, listed under 7:00 PM, was the name Maya Johnson.
Next to our reservation was a bold, fluorescent red streak. And written in the margin, in the sharp, sloping handwriting I had recognized on corporate checks for six straight years, was a direct note:
Flagged by J.C. Deny table on dress code or lost booking. Do not allow inside dining room under any circumstances.
I stared at Julian Croft's signature handwriting, the room around me fading into a low, threatening hum. My business partner hadn't just allowed snobbery to infect my restaurant—he had specifically laid an ambush for me.
CHAPTER 2
I stood up slowly, the paper held firmly between my fingers. The air in the foyer felt thick, heavy with the sharp scent of polished brass and fear.
Derek remained frozen in a half-bow, his hand hovering over the remaining scattered pages on the floor. His eyes darted from my face to the paper in my hand, his chest rising and falling in shallow, nervous breaths.
"Derek," I said, keeping my voice low so the nearby patrons couldn't catch every syllable. "Pick up the rest of these papers and put them in the desk drawer. Maya, stay right here with me."
Maya leaned closer to my shoulder, her eyes scanning the red highlighter on the page I held. Her brow furrowed, confusion instantly replacing her earlier anger.
"Uncle Marcus... why is my name marked in red? Julian knows who I am. He came to your Thanksgiving dinner two years ago."
"That's exactly what we're going to find out," I told her.
I turned back to Sasha. The girl was trembling now, her arrogant composure completely shattered. She had her back pressed against the wood-paneled wall, clutching a leather reservation tablet against her chest like a shield.
"Miss Vance," I said, my tone flat and controlled. "Who gave you this binder?"
"Mr.... Mr. Croft," she stammered, tears welling in the corners of her heavily lined eyes. "He said... he said the brand was losing its exclusivity. He held a mandatory training two weeks ago for all front-of-house staff. He told us that if we let the wrong demographic sit in the main room, our Michelin consideration would be revoked."
"And the handwritten notes?" I asked, tapping the red line beside Maya’s name. "Did he write these personally?"
She nodded rapidly, terrified of making another mistake. "He came down to the podium at four o'clock today before the doors opened. He looked over the evening manifest, made those marks, and told me that if this party showed up, I was to claim a system error or cite the dress code. He said if I let you past the vestibule, I’d be fired on the spot."
Maya gasped softly, her fingers tightening around the envelope containing her architect's license. "He knew you were coming. I told him."
I looked down at her. "When did you tell him, Maya?"
"Last week," she whispered, her voice tinged with guilt. "I emailed him through the restaurant contact page because I wanted to surprise you with the table near the kitchen pass—the one with the brass plaque you dedicated to Grandpa. I asked him if he could make sure that specific table was reserved for us tonight. He replied and said he'd personally oversee the arrangement."
The pieces began shifting into place, but the picture they formed didn't make complete sense yet. Julian Croft was ambitious, vain, and obsessed with social status, but he wasn't reckless. He owned twenty percent of this business; I owned eighty. He knew that any direct disrespect toward me would result in his immediate removal as managing partner.
For him to deliberately instruct an entry-level hostess to humiliate me at the front door, he either had to have lost his mind, or he was desperate to keep me out of this building tonight.
"Derek," I said, turning to the trembling manager. "Who is Julian meeting upstairs in the private mezzanine?"
Derek swallowed hard, glancing nervously toward the sweeping spiral staircase that led to the enclosed second-floor dining salon.
"It's... it's a private party, Mr. Johnson. Six gentlemen. They arrived forty minutes ago. They had security guards post up at the base of the stairs."
"Security guards?" I raised an eyebrow. "Since when do diners bring private security into The Copper Hearth?"