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Novelo Rectangle

The air in "Le Ciel" hummed with the low thrum of expensive conversation and the clinking of crystal. Alex Moretti, balancing three heavy plates of seared scallops along his slender forearm, wove through the forest of linen-draped tables with practiced grace. His dark, tight curls clung damply to his temples despite the restaurant's aggressive air conditioning. At twenty, he felt perpetually stretched thin – a full course load at City College by day, these grueling shifts at the city's most exclusive restaurant by night, and the ever-present weight of home. Home was a cramped, perpetually damp apartment in the East End, his mother’s tired smile, his younger sister’s textbooks spread on the kitchen table, and the constant, low thrum of financial anxiety. He deposited the plates with murmured apologies for the wait, earning a curt nod from the silver-haired couple. Turning, he scanned the section. Table 14, the prime corner spot overlooking the glittering skyline, was empty. Reserved, the hostess had whispered earlier, with a rare note of reverence, *for him*. Alex didn't know who "him" was, only that it meant extra vigilance and the potential for a bigger tip – if the patron was generous. Hope, fragile as a soap bubble, flickered in his chest. Maybe tonight… The bubble burst instantly. Table 14 was no longer empty. A man sat there, alone. He wasn't just sitting; he occupied the space with an unnerving stillness, like a panther surveying its domain. Even from across the room, Alex registered the sharp cut of an impossibly expensive charcoal suit, the stark white of his shirt against skin that seemed almost luminescent in the low light. Dark hair, perfectly styled. A profile that belonged on a coin – sharp jawline, straight nose. He was young, maybe mid-twenties, but radiated an authority that felt decades older. He was scanning the room, his expression one of detached boredom, bordering on contempt. Alex’s stomach tightened. *Rich prick*, he thought automatically, the familiar defensive shield slamming down. He’d served enough of them to recognize the type: insulated by wealth, blind to anyone outside their gilded bubble. This one looked particularly imperious. Taking a deep breath, Alex smoothed his slightly-too-large white shirt and approached. "Good evening, sir. Welcome to Le Ciel. My name is Alex, I’ll be—" The man didn’t look up. He simply raised a hand, a single finger extended, silencing Alex mid-sentence. His gaze remained fixed on the city lights, his attention clearly elsewhere. Alex felt heat crawl up his neck. The dismissive gesture was like a physical slap. He stood frozen, awkward, plates forgotten in his hands, the hum of the restaurant suddenly deafening. After an agonizing thirty seconds, the man finally deigned to turn his head. His eyes, Alex noted with a jolt, were an unnervingly cold shade of blue-grey, like ice over deep water. They swept over Alex with a swift, impersonal assessment – taking in the skinny frame, the slightly-too-long sleeves covering bony wrists, the sheen of sweat on his forehead, the unruly curls. There was no warmth, no recognition of another human being. Just… evaluation. And Alex felt found wanting. "A bottle of the Krug Clos d'Ambonnay 2004," the man stated, his voice a low, smooth baritone that held no inflection. It wasn't a request; it was a command issued to the air. Alex blinked. The Krug Clos d'Ambonnay was one of the most expensive champagnes on the menu. "Sir, that's… are you certain? It’s quite—" The icy eyes snapped fully onto him. "Did I stutter?" The question was soft, deadly. The boredom had vanished, replaced by a sharp, intimidating focus. "Bring it. Now. Chilled. And a menu, though I doubt anything here warrants anticipation." He turned back to the window, effectively dismissing Alex again. Anger, hot and bright, flared in Alex’s chest, momentarily overriding his ingrained service persona. This arrogance, this utter lack of basic decency… it burned. He bit the inside of his cheek, hard, tasting copper. *Just get the bottle. Don’t make trouble. You need this job.* He forced his voice into a neutral tone, though it trembled slightly. "Right away, sir." Retrieving the heavy, dust-covered bottle from the climate-controlled cellar felt like handling nitroglycerin. Alex carefully carried it back, along with an ice bucket and the thick, leather-bound menu he knew the man would likely scorn. He approached Table 14, his nerves frayed. The man was typing rapidly on a sleek, black phone, his expression one of intense irritation. "Your champagne, sir," Alex announced, setting the ice bucket down. He fumbled slightly with the heavy wire cage over the cork, his fingers slick with nervous sweat. The man didn't look up, didn't offer to help steady the bottle. Alex twisted, the wire resisting. He pulled, applying more pressure than intended. *POP!* The cork shot out with the force of a small cannon. It ricocheted off the low-hanging light fixture above the table. Worse, a geyser of priceless golden liquid erupted from the bottle's neck. Time slowed. Alex watched in horror as the champagne arced through the air, a sparkling, slow-motion cascade. It landed with a sickening splash directly onto the pristine, charcoal sleeve of the man's suit jacket, soaking the expensive fabric instantly and pooling on the white tablecloth. Silence descended like a shroud over their corner of the restaurant. The low hum of conversation nearby ceased. Alex’s blood ran cold. He stood frozen, the half-empty, dripping bottle clutched in his hand, staring at the spreading dark stain on the immaculate suit. The man on the phone slowly lowered it. He looked down at his sleeve, then slowly, deliberately, raised his gaze to Alex. The icy blue-grey eyes were no longer bored. They were glacial. Fury, cold and absolute, radiated from him in palpable waves. Alex felt pinned, like an insect under a microscope. "You," the man said, his voice dangerously quiet, cutting through the silence like shards of glass. "Clumsy. Incompetent. Utterly useless." Alex flinched. The words struck deeper than they should have, echoing insecurities he fought daily. He opened his mouth to apologize, to explain, but the man cut him off. "This suit," he continued, his voice rising slightly, drawing the attention of nearby diners who quickly averted their eyes, "cost more than you likely earn in a year. That champagne," he gestured contemptuously at the dripping bottle, "was a vintage reserved for palates that appreciate its worth. Clearly, *neither* are concepts you grasp." Humiliation washed over Alex, hot and suffocating. Tears pricked behind his eyes, but he willed them back, clenching his jaw. He wanted to snap back, to tell this entitled monster where he could shove his vintage champagne. But the image of his mother’s worn face, the stack of unpaid bills on their kitchen counter, held him silent. "Clean this up," the man commanded, his voice dripping with disdain. He didn't move, didn't attempt to dab at the mess himself. He simply sat there, radiating fury and expecting service. "And fetch the manager. Now. I want you removed from this floor. Permanently." Alex’s heart plummeted. Losing this job… it wasn’t just an inconvenience; it was a disaster. Panic clawed at his throat. He fumbled for a napkin, hands shaking violently, and started dabbing uselessly at the soaked sleeve, the cold champagne soaking through the linen onto his own skin. "Don't *touch* me," the man hissed, recoiling as if Alex’s fingers were contaminated. He snatched his arm away, his lip curling in disgust. "Just get the manager. And be quick about it, unless your incompetence extends to following simple instructions as well." Alex stumbled back, nearly tripping over his own feet. He fled towards the kitchen doors, the man’s icy, contemptuous gaze burning into his back. He didn't know who this arrogant, heartless billionaire was. Ethan Thorne’s name meant nothing to him beyond a whispered rumor of power. All Alex knew was a surge of pure, unadulterated hatred. This man, with his cold eyes and effortless cruelty, embodied everything Alex despised about the world of obscene wealth that surrounded him, yet remained forever out of reach. He pushed through the swinging doors into the steamy chaos of the kitchen, the sounds of clattering pans and shouted orders a jarring contrast to the silent condemnation he’d just escaped. Leaning against the cool stainless steel wall, he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to steady his ragged breathing. Hatred warred with crushing fear. He’d messed up. Badly. And he’d encountered the worst kind of customer imaginable: impossibly wealthy, impossibly handsome, and utterly devoid of mercy. As he pushed off the wall to find the manager, a single, fervent thought echoed in his mind: *I hope I never see that bastard again.* **(End of Chapter 1)**

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jomari.laure

jomari laure

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