That night, Ray took the train downtown and walked six blocks through cold spring wind to the jewel of your restaurant division, the Black Ember flagship on North Rush Street. It was your crown piece, the one your hospitality president, Victor Lang, called untouchable in every quarterly report. Record revenue. Flawless guest satisfaction. Elite clientele. Best-in-class staff retention. Luxury redefined.
Paper had a way of dressing corpses.
You knew that better than most.
You stepped through the bronze doors and were hit first by the scent. Charred beef, brown butter, expensive wine, polished wood, perfume that cost more than your first month’s rent back when you were twenty and eating peanut butter from the jar in a basement apartment. The hostess looked up with a trained smile, and for half a second you saw what everyone else saw first: a man approaching a five-star dining room with purpose.
Then her eyes traveled down your jacket.
The smile cooled like a dropped pan.
“Reservation?” she asked.
Her voice was not rude enough to be reported. It was the careful kind of contempt that lived comfortably inside fine dining.
“No,” you said. “Just a table for one.”
“We’re very full tonight.”
