The stainless steel door of the manager's office felt colder than the walk-in freezer. Alex stood before it, knuckles hovering, the phantom sensation of sticky champagne still clinging to his fingers. The kitchen's chaotic symphony – the hiss of steam, the clang of pans, the sharp shouts of Chef Laurent – faded into a dull roar behind him, drowned out by the frantic pounding of his own heart. *Termination. Unemployment. Ruin.* The words looped in his mind, each one a hammer blow.
Taking a shuddering breath that did nothing to steady him, Alex rapped twice.
"*Entrez!*" Pierre Dubois's voice, sharp as a honed knife, sliced through the door.
Alex pushed it open. Pierre sat behind a meticulously organized desk, the only concession to chaos a half-eaten croissant on a pristine white napkin. His thin lips were pressed into a disapproving line, his beady eyes magnified behind thick glasses. He didn't look up from the screen of his tablet, his finger stabbing at it with irritated precision.
"Moretti." The name was a sigh laden with disappointment. "Sit."
Alex perched on the edge of the hard chair opposite the desk, his body tense, ready to bolt. He couldn't bring himself to look at Pierre.
"The incident at Table Fourteen," Pierre stated, finally setting the tablet down. He steepled his fingers, his gaze boring into Alex. "Describe it. Precisely."
Alex swallowed, his throat sandpaper dry. "I... I was opening the champagne, sir. The Krug Clos d'Ambonnay. The cork... it was tight. It flew off and... the champagne sprayed. Onto the guest."
"*Sprayed*?" Pierre's eyebrow arched impossibly high. "Mr. Thorne's description involved a 'deluge' of 'incompetence' ruining a Brioni suit worth more than your annual salary. *Twice* your annual salary, perhaps." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Do you know *who* that guest was, Moretti?"
Alex shook his head mutely. Some rich jerk. That's all.
"Ethan Thorne," Pierre enunciated each syllable with chilling clarity. "Son of Silas Thorne. *The* Silas Thorne. As in Thorne Enterprises. As in the *owner* of this restaurant, this hotel, and half the skyline you can see from Table Fourteen!"
The blood drained from Alex's face. *The owner's son.* Not just a rich prick. *The* rich prick. He'd spilled vintage champagne on the prince of this particular castle. His stomach lurched.
"Mr. Thorne," Pierre continued, his voice dripping with icy contempt, "was understandably... *incensed*. He demanded immediate action. He demanded your termination. Permanently."
The word hung in the air, final and devastating. Alex gripped the edge of the chair until his knuckles turned white. "Sir, please... it was an accident. A terrible accident. I need this job. My family—"
"Your family's needs," Pierre interrupted coldly, "are irrelevant to the standards of Le Ciel. You endangered a guest – a *paramount* guest – with your clumsiness. You caused a scene. You wasted a bottle of champagne valued at several thousand dollars." He picked up a pen, tapping it rhythmically on the desk. "Mr. Thorne's wishes are not requests, Moretti. They are edicts."
Alex felt the world tilt. The worn linoleum of their kitchen floor, his mother's tired eyes, Sofia's textbooks... it all blurred. "So... I'm fired?" The words scraped out.
Pierre sighed again, a long, drawn-out sound of exasperation. "Termination would be the simplest solution. However..." He paused, studying Alex with the detached interest of a scientist examining a flawed specimen. "Mr. Thorne, in his magnanimity – or perhaps simply wishing to wash his hands of the matter quickly – did not specify *immediate* termination. He stated he wanted you 'removed from this floor. Permanently.'"
A sliver of hope, thin and desperate, pierced the despair. Alex held his breath.
"Therefore," Pierre declared, "you are suspended. Without pay. For two weeks. Effective immediately."
Suspended. No pay. Two weeks. It wasn't termination, but it was a disaster. Rent was due in ten days. The electricity bill was already overdue. Sofia needed new shoes for school.
"During this suspension," Pierre continued, his voice regaining its usual clipped authority, "you will reflect deeply on your inadequacy. You will practice opening bottles until your hands bleed, metaphorically speaking. Should Mr. Thorne grace us with his presence again – which, given tonight's debacle, is unlikely – you will *not* be on the floor. You will report to Banquet Service upon your return, washing glasses and polishing cutlery. Consider it a demotion. Consider it a reprieve. Consider yourself *extremely* fortunate it isn't worse. Now," he gestured dismissively towards the door, "remove yourself. Collect your things from your locker and leave via the service entrance. I do not wish to see you until the 15th."
Alex stumbled to his feet, his legs weak. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." The gratitude tasted like ash. He fled the office, the weight of Pierre's disdain and the crushing reality of two weeks without income pressing down on him like a physical force.
**Meanwhile, in the Private Lounge...**
Ethan Thorne stood before a full-length mirror in the exclusive lounge reserved for Thorne family and platinum-tier guests. He'd shed the ruined jacket and shirt, the sharp scent of Krug still clinging faintly to his skin despite vigorous scrubbing. Now clad in a crisp, spare white shirt retrieved by a flustered concierge, he meticulously adjusted his cufflinks – platinum, simple, severe.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. The image of the waiter – *Alex*, the name tag had flashed – frozen in horror, champagne dripping from his shaking hands, replayed in his mind. *Clumsy. Incompetent. Useless.* The words he'd spat felt justified, yet a flicker of something else, something unwelcome and quickly suppressed, had stirred when he saw the raw fear and humiliation in those wide, dark eyes. *Weakness,* he corrected himself. Pathetic.
His phone buzzed. A message from his father's assistant: *Mr. Thorne Sr. expects your report on the Singapore acquisition by 9 AM. He was informed of the… incident at Le Ciel.* Ethan's knuckles whitened on the edge of the marble sink. Of course his father knew. The old man had eyes and ears everywhere. Another mark against him. *Incompetence breeds incompetence,* Silas Thorne's favorite adage echoed in his head.
He smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle from his sleeve, his expression hardening back into its usual mask of detached control. Sentimentality was a luxury he couldn't afford, especially not over a minimum-wage waiter who couldn't handle a bottle. He'd dealt with the problem. The waiter was gone. That was the end of it. He turned his thoughts to the Singapore figures, pushing the image of curly hair and terrified eyes firmly out of his mind.
**Alex: The Walk of Shame**
The service entrance alley behind Le Ciel was a world away from the gilded opulence inside. Dumpsters overflowed, the air thick with the greasy smell of discarded food and exhaust fumes. Alex leaned against the cold brick wall, the rough surface scraping his back through his thin waiter's shirt. He clutched his backpack containing his street clothes, feeling numb.
He pulled out his phone, an old model with a cracked screen. The notification light blinked – a missed call from home. *Mom.* Guilt, sharp and acidic, joined the despair. He couldn't face her yet. Couldn't tell her he'd failed, again.
His thumbs moved automatically, opening a familiar chat window.
> **Alex (10:48 PM):** Worst night ever. Might lose job. FML.
>
> The reply was almost instantaneous.
>
> **Marco (10:48 PM):** Shit. What happened? You okay?
> **Marco (10:48 PM):** Where are you? Le Ciel alley?
> **Marco (10:49 PM):** Don't move. On my way. Don't do anything stupid, Al.
A tiny spark of warmth pierced the numbness. Marco. Always there. Alex slumped further against the wall, closing his eyes, waiting for the only solid thing left in his crumbling world. He didn't know who Ethan Thorne truly was beyond a name and a suit price tag, but he knew one thing with absolute certainty: he *hated* him. That hatred was the only fire keeping the cold despair at bay.
**(End of Chapter 2)**