She took pride in doing her job well, not because serving wealthy people made her feel important, but because competence was one of the few things in her life she could control completely.
Her father had taught her that.
"Whatever work you do," he used to say, "do it so well that nobody can truthfully accuse you of doing it carelessly. They may still dislike you. They may still underestimate you. But don't give them an excuse that belongs to you."
For years, she had carried those words like a private promise.
Tonight, they were the only thing keeping anger from interfering with her concentration.
At the service station, her colleague Jasmine Reed was arranging dessert spoons.
Jasmine was twenty-nine, quick-witted, and perpetually suspicious of anyone who wore a suit costing more than her monthly rent. She had worked at Maison Étoile for almost three years and knew every regular guest by name, including the ones who pretended not to know hers.
She looked at Maya the moment she approached.
"What happened in the private room?"
Maya picked up a clean stack of napkins.
"What makes you think something happened?"
"Because Mr. Laurent went in there looking for a bottle opener, came out looking as if he'd seen a ghost, and then asked me whether our manager was on the premises."
Maya paused.
"Mr. Laurent went into the room?"
"Only as far as the service entrance. He said the guests were arguing about something. Then he saw your face and decided he had somewhere else to be."
Jasmine lowered her voice.
"Was it Blackwood?"
Maya gave her a warning glance.
Jasmine sighed.
"Of course it was Blackwood."
"Please don't start."
"I'm not starting anything. I'm asking whether the man who treats a restaurant like his private kingdom has found a new way to ruin somebody's evening."
"He made an offer."
Jasmine stared at her.
"What kind of offer?"
"A million dollars."
Jasmine's hand froze above the drawer.
Then she slowly put down the spoons.
"I'm sorry. I need you to say that again."
"He offered me a million dollars to say one sentence in Japanese."
Jasmine blinked.
"And?"
"I said it."
"And?"
"He didn't pay me."
Jasmine looked toward the private dining room.
For a moment, she seemed unable to decide whether to laugh or march inside and demand an explanation.
Finally, she whispered, "I knew that man was trouble the second he asked whether we had a special menu for people who couldn't pronounce French."
Maya almost smiled.
"That was last month."
"And I'm still angry about it."
"Jasmine."
"What? I'm allowed to remember."
Maya leaned closer.
"Something else happened. I need you to keep it to yourself for now."
Jasmine's expression changed immediately.
"What is it?"
Maya hesitated.
She wanted to tell someone. The discovery had disturbed her more than she had expected, and the prospect of carrying it alone made the room feel smaller.
But she did not yet know what the document meant, whether her father's history had any bearing on the present, or whether Adrian Blackwood had been personally involved in the old dispute.
She had no intention of spreading an accusation she could not support.
"I saw a name on a Japanese business document," she said. "A name connected to something my father worked on years ago."
"Your father?"
"Yes."
"Is it bad?"
"I don't know."
Jasmine studied her face.
"Do you want me to cover your section?"
"No."
"Maya, I'm serious."
"So am I. I need to finish my shift."
Jasmine looked as though she wanted to argue, but she knew Maya well enough to understand that pushing harder would accomplish nothing.
"Fine," she said. "But if that man makes you cry, I will personally pour his cognac into his lap."
"You will do no such thing."
"I'll consider it."
"Thank you for your restraint."
"You're welcome."
Maya returned to the dining room before Jasmine could ask another question.
For the next forty minutes, she concentrated on the practical demands of the evening. She delivered an order of sea bass to a couple at table eight, replaced a broken water glass, and helped a new server remember the difference between two similar sauces.
She did not look toward the private dining room.
She did not check whether Adrian had left.
And she certainly did not allow herself to imagine what might happen if he discovered that her father had kept a copy of the original correspondence.
At nine forty-seven, the private dining room door opened.
Adrian emerged first, followed by Richard Coleman, Eleanor Price, and Miles Harrington.
Their dinner had apparently ended without dessert.
Adrian's face was composed, but his body language had changed. He was no longer performing the relaxed confidence of a man who expected every person in the building to accommodate him. His shoulders were stiff, and he was speaking to Eleanor in a low voice.
Richard held the Japanese document inside a leather folder.
Maya was collecting plates from table fourteen when Adrian stopped beside her.
"Miss Bennett."
She turned.
"Yes, Mr. Blackwood?"
"Can we speak privately?"
Maya glanced at the plates in her hands.
"I'm still serving."