7:15 p.m. The Sterling Room was alive. Warm golden light spilled across white tablecloths. The clink of wine glasses mixed with soft jazz from hidden speakers. The smell of seared duck and truffle butter drifted from the kitchen in rich, heavy waves. Every table was dressed with fresh flowers and candles flickering behind crystal glass. Waiters in black vests glided between tables carrying silver trays without making a sound. It was the kind of place that made you whisper without knowing why.
Curtis held the door open for Denise. She stepped inside with the bouquet of sidewalk flowers in one hand and his arm in the other. Cool air hit them like a wall, clean, sharp, scented with something expensive. The marble floor gleamed under their sneakers. At the hostess stand, Gabrielle Foster looked up and smiled. 22 years old, college student, working weekends to cover tuition. She reached for two leather-bound menus. "Good evening. Welcome to the Sterling."
A hand came down on the menus before she could finish. Bradley Thornton. [clears throat] He appeared from the side like he'd been watching the door all night, waiting for exactly this moment. His eyes locked onto Curtis and Denise. He scanned them the way a bouncer scans a fake ID, top to bottom. Hoodie, faded jeans, beat-up sneakers, brown paper bouquet with a drooping daisy. His lip curled upward slowly. "What the hell is this?"
Curtis blinked once. "Excuse me." Bradley didn't lower his voice. Didn't even try. "I said, 'What the hell is this? You two smell like a deep fryer. This is a five-star restaurant, not a damn soup kitchen.'" The couple at the nearest table stopped eating. A woman in pearls slowly set her fork down. Her husband cleared his throat and looked away, pretending to study the wine list. The jazz kept playing, but the room already felt different. People were listening now.