Chapter 2: Where Is She?
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Preston blinked, his practiced, oily smile faltering. "Your... your mother, sir? We haven't had any reservations under the Vance name tonight..."
"She wouldn't use my name. She uses her late husband's," Julian said coldly, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the prime window tables. "Rose Miller. Where is she?"
Vanessa Whitmore’s champagne glass slipped from her manicured fingers.
The crystal shattered against the hearth of the fireplace, a sharp, violent sound that echoed through the catatonic room. The golden liquid pooled around her designer heels, but she didn't even notice. Her face had turned a translucent, ghostly white. She looked toward the empty window table, where the untouched basket of sourdough still sat, and then slowly turned her head toward the dark hallway by the restrooms.
Emma stood up from her crouched position in the service alcove. As she stepped out into the light, Julian’s eyes instantly locked onto her—and then shifted to the frail old woman sitting in the shadows behind her, still wearing her gray mended coat.
Julian’s entire demeanor changed. The cold detachment evaporated, replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated fury.
He saw the coat: His mother was shivering in a drafty service alcove.
He saw the table: She was shoved next to the swinging kitchen doors and the restrooms.
He saw the bowl: A single, cheap bowl of soup served in the dark.
May you like
Julian walked past Preston as if the manager were made of glass. His heavy footsteps echoed like a death march across the marble floor. He stopped at the entrance of the alcove, looking down at his mother.
"Mama," Julian said, his voice dropping all of its iron, softening into something thick with emotion. "Why are you sitting back here?"
