Her fingers hovered over the tablet without checking anything. You glanced over her shoulder and counted four empty tables in the main room.
“I don’t mind waiting.”
She gave you another look, this one sharper, calculating whether stubbornness was worth the trouble. Then she said, “We can seat you near the service station.”
The worst table in the restaurant.
Close enough to the kitchen doors to catch the heat and the shouting. Close enough to be brushed by servers carrying trays, invisible to anyone who mattered, visible only when you were in the way. It was the table designed for customers the restaurant wanted to survive rather than serve.
You gave her a small nod. “That’s fine.”
She seemed mildly disappointed you had not taken the hint and left.
From the table, you watched everything.
You had spent twenty years building systems. Systems for acquisition, systems for hiring, systems for supply chains and pricing and expansion and risk. You understood that culture always leaked through the seams eventually. It showed up in the details. The tone between employees. The way mistakes were handled. The speed of kindness. The direction of fear.
Black Ember was beautiful in the way a movie set is beautiful. Everything glowed. Glass caught candlelight. The piano near the bar softened the edges of expensive conversations. Servers moved like dancers, smooth and practiced, while wealthy guests leaned back in plush chairs and let themselves be adored.
