Chapter 60 - 59 The Bill
Dr. Aris smiles. The warm, distinguished aura returns to his face instantly. He checks the gold watch on his wrist and reaches into the inner pocket of his gray suit jacket. He pulls out a sleek leather wallet.
"I should get back to the university," Dr. Aris says. "Let me take care of the bill."
"No," I say immediately. I reach across the table and press my hand flat against the tablecloth. "I insisted on treating you today to thank you for securing my university admission. I am paying for this lunch."
Dr. Aris chuckles. He puts his wallet away and stands up. He smooths the front of his tailored jacket. "You are incredibly stubborn, Emily. Very well. I will let you handle the check. I need to visit the restroom before I head out to the lobby. Please excuse me for a moment."
"Take your time," I reply.
I watch him walk away, navigating the elegant dining room with confident strides. I feel a deep sense of accomplishment. I secured my education, I found a broker for my cardiology formula, and I just bought the ultimate leverage over my worst enemy. Everything is finally falling into place.
I catch the eye of a passing waiter. He is a tall, thin man with slicked back dark hair and an arrogant posture. He walks over to my table, carrying a slim, black leather folder.
"Your check, Miss," the waiter says politely. He places the folder gently onto the white linen.
I reach into the pocket of my denim jacket. My fingers wrap around the thick stack of bills I scraped together this morning. Six hundred dollars. It is my entire safety net. I pull the money out, keeping it hidden in my palm.
"Thank you," I say. I open the leather cover.
My eyes scan the printed receipt. They drop past the charges for the truffles, the imported sparkling water, and the poached pear dessert. They land on the bold total printed at the very bottom of the page.
The air instantly leaves my lungs.
My fingers go completely numb. The black leather folder suddenly feels like it weighs fifty pounds. A cold, prickling sweat breaks out across the back of my neck. I blink rapidly, staring at the ink, praying the numbers will magically rearrange themselves. They remain exactly the same.
I look up at the waiter. My voice comes out as a weak, raspy whisper.
"Excuse me," I say. "How much is the total?"
The waiter offers a practiced, tight smile. "The total is eighteen thousand, eight hundred and eighty-eight dollars, Miss."
I look down at my hand. The small stack of bills feels completely pathetic. Six thousand dollars. I am short by over ten thousand dollars. I am sitting in the most exclusive restaurant in the city, surrounded by billionaires, and I cannot even afford the appetizers. Complete, paralyzing panic sets in.
Eighteen thousand, eight hundred and eighty-eight dollars is a number that can make a perfectly sane person consider dining and dashing from a skyscraper.
The leather checkbook holder feels heavier than a brick in my sweaty palms. I stare at the printed receipt. The crisp black ink mocks my current financial reality. Eighteen thousand, eight hundred and eighty-eight dollars.
I recount the zeroes. I blink twice. The numbers remain stubbornly identical.
The waitress stands beside the table. She has a pinched nose, excessive contouring powder on her cheekbones, and a smug posture. She clearly enjoys my visible distress.
The heavy scent of her cheap floral perfume clashes violently with the delicate aroma of the truffle risotto lingering in the air.
I mentally calculate the last time I ate at Bordeaux 101. Julian Thorne sat across from me. We ordered the exact same dishes. That bill came to a very manageable five thousand dollars. The difference glares at me from the bottom of the receipt. The bottle of vintage red wine Dr. Aris ordered is the culprit. I wanted to treat him well. I failed to check the price list first.
Panic rises in my throat. I swallow it down with a gulp of water. The ice clinks against the crystal glass. The cold water does nothing to soothe my nerves. Dr. Aris is currently in the restroom. I absolutely refuse to let a respectable elder pay for a meal I explicitly offered to host. I scrape together a mental inventory of my bank accounts. Six thousand dollars. That is my entire net worth.
I need a loan. Fast.
"Is there a problem with the bill, Miss?" The waitress asks and I can already see the condescending frown forming on her face.
I open my mouth to buy some time. A shadow falls over the table before I can form a coherent sentence.
Warren, a man I’ve seen on many magazine covers with Alistair, slides into my peripheral vision. He wears a meticulously tailored beige suit that probably costs more than a luxury car. His sandy blond hair is styled back with exact precision. His striking blue eyes hold a calculating gleam as he assesses the situation. He moves with the effortless grace of a man who owns the building.
"Is everything alright here?" Warren asks.
The waitress visibly pales. Her smug posture instantly dissolves into a rigid bow. "Boss. Everything is fine. The lady is just reviewing her check."
Warren waves her away with a flick of his wrist. She scurries off without another word. He turns his attention to me. He leans against the edge of the mahogany table.
"You look a little stressed, Emily." He points a manicured finger at the leather folder. "Allow me to handle that for you. Consider it a gift for a new friend."