was the first moment that night I nearly smiled.

I didn’t.

I just told him to wait until ten.

Then I went back to the kitchen, where the line was firing up and the air smelled like butter, smoke, garlic, and heat.

Priya looked at me once and knew enough not to ask questions in front of everyone.

“They staying?” she asked quietly.

“For now.” I wiped my hands on a towel and took out my phone.

“Keep service tight.

No one cuts corners because of them.”

She nodded.

I sent one text.

They’re here.

Table 7.

Need you.

The reply came before I locked the screen.

On my way.

At 6:45, the dining room was full.

At 7:10, table 7 had ordered appetizers but not entrees.

At 7:30, my father sent back a steak because it wasn’t the doneness he had requested, though it was exactly the doneness he had requested.

At 7:42, my mother asked a server whether the owner always let employees wear “that much jewelry,” which was her way of insulting Priya’s bangles without sounding direct.

At 8:00, Tyler ordered another old fashioned and waved at me from across the room like this was all one long family joke.

I never waved back.

Working service saved me.

It gave my body something to do while my mind stayed cold.

I checked plates.

Tasted sauce.

Called pickups.

Smoothed over a delayed dessert for a four-top near the bar.

Answered one vendor email between courses.

Every time I passed the dining room, I could feel table 7 there like a rotten tooth.

At 8:14, the front door opened.

Marcus Chen stepped inside.

He was in a navy suit without a tie, silver at the temples, posture straight as a line.

Nothing about him was theatrical, but he had the kind of contained presence that made rooms adjust around him.

He scanned the dining room once, saw me near the host stand, and gave the smallest nod.

My father, who had been mid-sentence, turned and went silent.

That reaction told me everything I needed to know.

Marcus had not just been a church acquaintance, as my father implied.

There was history there.

Unpleasant history, judging by the way the color drained from my father’s face.

I walked over.

“You made good time.”

“Traffic was light,” Marcus said.

His gaze flicked briefly toward table 7.

“I take it that’s the problem.”

“That’s the problem.”

Priya appeared at my elbow.

“Private room is ready.”

My father stood before I even invited him.

“Marcus,” he said, trying for ease and finding strain instead.

“Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Marcus looked at him for a beat too long.

“Dean.”

No warmth.

No handshake.

I said, “Actually, I asked Marcus to come.

Since you mentioned my lease, I thought it would be helpful to include the landlord in any discussion involving ownership, threats, or imaginary leverage.”

Tyler sat up.

My mother’s eyes sharpened behind her lenses.

My father recovered first.

“Threats? That’s not what this is.

We’re family.”

Marcus turned to me.

“Would you like this conversation somewhere less public?”

“Yes.”

So I took them to the private dining room at the back, where the lighting was softer and the walls were paneled in walnut.

It was the room I used for investor