Vanessa Porter had served wealthy people for seven years.
She knew their patterns. Their tells. The way old money moved differently than new money—quieter, more assured, like they'd never had to prove anything to anyone. The way tech millionaires checked their phones mid-conversation because their time was worth more than your existence. The way trust fund kids looked through you like you were part of the furniture, just another amenity included with their $400 tasting menu.
She'd learned to read them in seconds. Had to, for survival. Know which ones tipped well and which ones would complain about imaginary problems to get their bill comped. Know which ones wanted invisible service and which ones wanted their egos stroked with every pour of wine.
Seven years. Hundreds of wealthy faces blurring into the same entitled mask.
None of them had prepared her for him.
"Aurora Maria Porter!"
