Chapter 2
The heavy mahogany doors of the banquet hall swung open, and a parade of kitchen staff entered, carrying massive silver platters. The main course had arrived. Rich, buttery aromas filled the airy, luminous space as the servers began distributing lavish portions of whole lobsters to the thirty-five guests. The warm golden light illuminated the rich reds of the seafood and the sparkling champagne being poured into crystal flutes.
Maribel stood frozen by her trolley, her knitted brows drawing together as she watched the plates being set down. Everyone at the head table received a steaming, extravagant portion—everyone except Ansel.
The server assigned to the boss’s chair, clearly acting under prior instructions, placed a porcelain plate in front of Ansel. It contained absolutely no meat. There was only a hollow, cracked, empty lobster shell sitting pathetically in the center of the fine china.
Ansel stared at the empty shell. His sharp jawline clenched, the muscles ticking beneath his neatly trimmed stubble.
Quentin let out a sharp, cruel bark of laughter. He leaned over, reaching toward Ansel’s plate. With a flick of his wrist, Quentin tipped the empty red shell off the porcelain. It tumbled onto Ansel’s lap, leaving a greasy, spreading stain of cold, congealed butter across the expensive fabric of Ansel’s tailored dark trousers.
Several nearby relatives, loyal to Quentin’s new regime, snickered openly. The sound of their laughter was a sickening violation of the respect normally commanded by the head of the table.
"Leftovers suit a Boss who needs babysitting," Quentin smirked, his American accent dripping with condescending venom. He raised his champagne glass, gesturing mockingly toward Ansel’s ruined suit. "Don't you agree, cousin? You barely have the strength to crack a claw anyway."
Ansel’s cold, observant eyes slowly lifted from the stain on his trousers to meet Quentin’s gaze. "Do you find it amusing to humiliate the man who signs your paychecks, Quentin?"
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"I find it amusing that you still think you're the one signing them," Quentin retorted, taking a slow, arrogant sip of his champagne. "The families are looking to me now. You're just a figurehead wrapped in gauze."
Maribel’s heart hammered against her ribs. The blatant disrespect was a public execution of Ansel’s authority. Her fair, rosy cheeks flushed with a mixture of terror and fierce, protective anger. She could not stand there and watch him be degraded in front of the people he was supposed to lead. Gripping a clean white cloth napkin from her apron, she abandoned her position by the trolley and moved swiftly toward the head table.
