Something deep inside Curtis shifted. Not anger, something heavier. Something that settled into his bones like a decision that was never really a choice. He was not leaving. Not for pride. Not for ego, not to prove who he was or what he owned. He was staying for Gabrielle. Because if he walked away tonight, Bradley wins. And tomorrow morning, Gabrielle would stand behind that same podium under that same man, swallowing that same fear with nobody beside her. Curtis turned to Bradley. His voice was the calmest sound in the building. "We'll wait at the bar." Bradley stared at him. "The bar? The bar? If something opens up, we'll be right there." Bradley rolled his eyes, certain they'd leave within 20 minutes. A couple of overpriced drinks, the slow burn of humiliation, and they'd disappear quietly through the front door like they were never here. "Fine, suit yourself." He straightened his blazer, the navy one he was still making minimum payments on, and walked away without looking back.
Curtis placed his hand on Denise's lower back and guided her toward the bar. As they passed the entrance wall, his eyes drifted upward to the framed photographs. The group shot from opening night, him shaking Raymond's hand, both men smiling wide, a ribbon cutting ceremony behind them. Four years ago, Curtis signed the check that made every wall in this building possible. Tonight, he couldn't get a single table in it. Curtis and Denise sat at the far end of the bar. Two stools, no menus, no greeting, just two glasses of tap water that Oliver Dunn placed in front of them without making eye contact. No wine list, no cocktail suggestions, just water in a restaurant where the cheapest glass of wine cost $35. Curtis didn't push it. Not yet. He let the water sit untouched. Denise set the bouquet on the bar beside her, petals brushing against the polished wood. 2 minutes passed, then five. Oliver stood 3 feet away, wiping the same glass over and over, pretending they didn't exist. Behind him, the bar shelves glowed amber and gold. Rows of expensive bourbon and wine lit from below like a museum display. A white couple at the other end laughed about something. The bartender poured them refills without being asked. Service worked just fine when you looked a certain way.
Curtis spoke calmly. "We'd like to see a wine list, please." Oliver glanced toward Bradley, who stood near the hostess stand with his arms crossed, watching them like a security camera. Bradley gave a small shake of his head, almost invisible, but Curtis caught it. Oliver turned back. "I'm sorry, sir. I think we're actually between pours right now." Between pours in a restaurant with a 16-page wine seller on a Saturday night. Denise exhaled through her nose. The kind of exhale that replaces the sentence she actually wanted to say. Curtis didn't wait for permission. He'd memorized this wine list years ago. He helped build it. Opus 1, 2018. The bottle.
Oliver's hands stopped on the glass. "That bottle cost $450." He looked at Bradley again. Bradley walked over slow, hands in his pockets, that smirk stitched permanently onto his face. "The Opus One? That's a $450 bottle, friend. You sure you didn't mean the house red? More budget friendly, easier on the wallet." "Opus 1, 2018," Curtis repeated. Same tone, same volume. Like ordering coffee on a Tuesday morning. Bradley stared at him for three full seconds. Then he extended his hand, palm up. "Card." "Excuse me. I need to pre-authorize your credit card before we open a bottle at that price point. Restaurant policy."