Chapter 3 - The Exodus of the Country Club
For ten agonizing seconds, nobody moved.
The air in the room felt heavy enough to crush a stone. The thirty-eight women sat glued to their velvet seats, looking between Beatrice—who looked as if she were about to faint into her empty dessert bowl—and me, standing at the head of the table in my chef's coat like a judge delivering a verdict.
Then, Mrs. Sterling stood up.
She didn't look at Beatrice. She didn't offer a word of comfort. She reached into her yellow Chanel handbag, pulled out a sleek black American Express Centurion card, and laid it flat on the table in front of me.
"My portion of the tasting menu and my share of the wine was four hundred dollars," Mrs. Sterling said, her voice crisp, cold, and entirely devoid of the warmth she had displayed toward Beatrice twenty minutes ago. "Put six hundred on this card. The extra two hundred is a personal tip for your kitchen staff and servers, Chef Camilla."
"Thank you, Mrs. Sterling," I said, taking the card with a polite nod. "Gavin will process this immediately."
Like a dam breaking, the rest of the room exploded into a frenzy of nervous activity.
Zipper after zipper clicked open. Luxury handbags were rummaged through. Women pulled out Visa Infinite cards, stacks of hundred-dollar bills, and personalized checks, desperate to pay their portion and escape the radioactive zone that Beatrice Vance had become.
"I only had the salad and one glass of water!" lied one woman near the end of the table, tossing two hundred-dollar bills onto the tablecloth.
"I didn't even want the truffle risotto!" claimed another, handing her card to Gavin as he stepped into the room with two portable POS terminals. "Beatrice ordered it for the whole table! I shouldn't have to pay for the reserve wine!"
"Beatrice told us this was her event!" spat a third woman, shooting a venomous glare at the head of the table. "She told us she was treating the entire committee! This is absolute fraud!"
Beatrice sat in the middle of the storm, completely paralyzed.
Her friends—the women she had spent ten years impressing, the women whose social calendar she strove to dominate, the women she had bragged to about her son's fake empire—were stepping over her to throw cash onto the table just to distance themselves from her name.
"Evelyn... Margaret... please," Beatrice choked out, her voice thin and trembling as she reached out to touch Mrs. Sterling's arm. "You know there's been a mistake... Lucas will fix this... Camilla is just being vindictive..."
Mrs. Sterling pulled her arm away with cold disgust.
"Don't touch me, Beatrice," Mrs. Sterling said, her voice dripping with ice. "You brought us here under false pretenses. You used us to humiliate your daughter-in-law, while your son was spending stolen money on a mistress at a luxury pool bar. You are an absolute disgrace. Do not bother showing up to the Guild meeting on Tuesday."
Beatrice flinched as if she had been slapped across the face.
Within fifteen minutes, thirty-eight credit cards had been swiped, swiped, and swiped again. The front-of-house staff worked with military efficiency, printing receipts, collecting tips, and escorting the fleeing women out through the side entrance so they wouldn't disrupt the dinner prep in the main dining room.
When the dust finally settled, the room was empty, save for the dirty plates, the empty wine bottles, and Beatrice, sitting alone at the center table.
Gavin walked over to me, holding the master POS printout. His eyes were wide with shock.
"Every single cent has been collected, Camilla," Gavin whispered, his voice trembling with excitement. "In fact, with the extra tips the ladies left to apologize for Mrs. Vance's behavior, the servers just made more in three hours than they usually make in two weeks."
"Good," I said softly. "Distribute it evenly among the kitchen line and the floor staff. They earned every penny today."
"Right away, Chef." Gavin took the receipts and quickly backed out of the room, shutting the heavy oak doors behind him.
I walked over to the head table, pulled out a chair directly across from Beatrice, and sat down.
Beatrice was staring at the tablecloth. Her eyes were bloodshot, her carefully styled hair was slightly disheveled, and her hands were clamped tightly around her empty wine glass.
"You ruined me," Beatrice whispered, her voice raspy and shaking with pure hatred. "You planned this. You brought those women here to humiliate me."
I let out a soft, humorless laugh.
"I didn't bring anyone here, Beatrice," I said, leaning forward and resting my forearms on the table. "You walked into my restaurant without a reservation. You demanded thirty-nine seats during peak lunch service. You ordered my most expensive wines, my white truffles, and my dry-aged steaks. You boasted to your friends that you owned my life's work, and then you bragged that your son was cheating on me with my own hard-earned money."
"He is my son!" Beatrice yelled, her eyes flashing with a sudden, desperate rage. "He deserves everything! You were nothing before he married you! A line cook! A nobody working in sweaty kitchens! He gave you social status! He gave you a family name!"
I picked up the leather folder resting on the table and opened it to the first page—the Lumina Incorporation Deed from six years ago.
"Look at this signature, Beatrice," I said, pointing to the bottom line. "It says Camilla Vance. Not Lucas. Not Beatrice. I worked sixteen-hour shifts at Le Bernardin for six years to save ninety thousand dollars. I took out a small business loan under my own credit score. I signed the lease on this building when it was an empty warehouse covered in drywall dust. Your son didn't give me status. He gave me debt."
"He loves you!" Beatrice lied, though her voice lacked conviction. "He made a mistake! All young men make mistakes! You are destroying a family over a silly girl!"
"He didn't make a mistake, Beatrice. He made a financial career out of stealing from me," I said, pulling out a second document from the folder—a certified bank audit of Lumina's accounts. "Over the last three years, Lucas has transferred a total of two hundred and fourteen thousand dollars out of my business accounts. He forged my signature on two credit applications. And do you know what the worst part is?"
Beatrice swallowed hard, her jaw tightening.
"You knew," I said softly, looking straight into her eyes. "You knew he was stealing from me. You knew about Chloe. You let me cook for you, let me host your birthday parties, let me pay for your holiday dinners, all while sitting across from me knowing that my husband was sleeping in another woman's bed using my money."
Beatrice looked away, unable to meet my gaze. She tried to maintain her regal posture, but her shoulders slumped forward, defeated.
"The process server met Lucas at the Pendry ten minutes ago," I continued, my voice steady and cold. "By tomorrow morning, a forensic accountant will begin auditing every bank account associated with his name. Every dollar he stole will be clawed back in the divorce settlement. If he cannot pay it, my legal team will file criminal charges for corporate embezzlement and forgery."
Beatrice snapped her head back toward me, panic flashing across her face. "Criminal charges?! You would put my son in prison?!"
"If he doesn't return what he stole, yes," I replied without a second of hesitation.
Before Beatrice could answer, the double doors of the private room burst open.
Lucas stood in the doorway.
He was breathing heavily, his tie loosened, his hair messy from running through the afternoon heat. He was wearing an expensive linen suit, but his face was pale, sweaty, and terrified. He looked at the empty room, at the piles of cash and receipts on the side table, at his mother sitting alone, and finally at me.
"Camilla..." Lucas gasped, taking a step toward the table. "Camilla, please... we need to talk right now."
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I stood up slowly, smoothed down my chef's jacket, and picked up my leather folder.
"We have nothing left to talk about, Lucas," I said, stepping past him toward the door. "Your mother's bill has been paid. But yours is just coming due."
