Part Three: Table Seven
The reservation had been made under the name Ashford — VIP party of eight.
Elara was assigned to the room before she saw the name. By the time she connected it, they were already inside — older, polished, wearing the specific kind of expensive that announces itself without trying. Sebastian sat at the head of the table, broader now, his golden hair streaked with deliberate grey at the temples. Vivienne sat beside him in a cream blazer, her laughter still exactly as it had been in that corridor — sharp and performative. Marcus occupied the corner seat, thick-necked and self-satisfied, already ordering before the menus had been opened.
Three others Elara didn't recognize completed the group: a woman with diamond earrings who seemed bored by everything, two young men in suits who laughed on cue at whatever Sebastian said.
Elara stood in the doorway for exactly two seconds.
Then she walked in.
She introduced herself. She described the specials. She poured water without spilling a drop. For a full ten minutes, not one of them looked at her face.
Then Sebastian looked up.
She watched the recognition move across his features in slow stages — confusion, searching, disbelief, and then the slow curl of amusement that she remembered from the school hallway.
"Elara Voss," he said, leaning back in his chair. The entire table shifted its attention toward her like a single organism. "I thought that was you."
"Good afternoon, Mr. Ashford," she said. "Are you ready to order?"
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"A waitress," Vivienne said softly, as if announcing the punchline of a joke. She exchanged a glance with the woman in diamond earrings. Both smiled.
"Still surviving, are we?" Marcus said pleasantly. He had the tone of a man who believed kindness and condescension were the same thing.
