Chapter 72 More Than a Housewife
The restaurant entrance fell silent.
Wesley Wen stood near the hostess podium, his hands in his pockets, his smile easy and relaxed. He was wearing a charcoal gray suit. No tie. His shirt was open at the collar. He looked like a man who owned the building. Which, it turned out, he did.
Clarisse turned.
Her face went white. Then red. Then white again.
"Mr. Wen," she stammered. "I didn’t see you there. I didn’t—”
Clarisse stood frozen behind her podium, her face pale, her hands trembling. The guests who had mocked Veyra moments ago were now staring at the floor, pretending they had not spoken.
Wesley Wen walked forward. His steps were slow and deliberate. His sharp eyes were fixed on Clarisse.
"Clarisse," he said. His voice was pleasant. But underneath it was steel. "You have been with us for how long?"
"Three years, Mr. Wen," she whispered.
"Three years. And in three years, you have forgotten how to treat guests?" He tilted his head. "Or do you only remember how to treat guests who look like they have money?"
Clarisse’s lip trembled. "Mr. Wen, I didn’t mean—"
"You judged a woman by her clothes. By her lack of jewelry. By the fact that she came alone and not with a party of four in designer suits." Wesley’s voice did not rise. It did not need to. "You decided she did not belong here."
Clarisse said nothing.
"You were wrong." Wesley turned to the other guests. The Whitmore party. The woman who had laughed. The man who had suggested the public observation deck. "All of you were wrong."
He looked back at Clarisse.
"You are dismissed. Effective immediately. Collect your things and leave."
Clarisse’s face crumpled. "Mr. Wen, please—"
"Before you go, you will apologize to Mrs. Thorne."
Clarisse turned to Veyra.
Her eyes were wet. Her mouth was twisted. She looked like she wanted to scream.
But she did not.
"I’m sorry, Mrs. Thorne," Clarisse said. The words came out stiff. Forced. "I should not have treated you that way."
Veyra looked at her. At the resentment behind her eyes. At the way her hands were still shaking.
She did not believe the apology. But she also did not care.
"Goodbye, Clarisse," Veyra said.
She turned away. She followed Dr. Harrison into the restaurant.
Clarisse stood alone behind the podium, her apology hanging in the air, unacknowledged.
The restaurant was even more beautiful inside.
Crystal chandeliers. Fresh flowers on every table. A wall of windows overlooking the city. The river glittered in the distance.
Veyra walked past tables filled with wealthy diners. She felt their eyes on her. Her clothes. Her bag. Her simple ponytail.
She did not care.
Dr. Harrison led her to a table by the window. The view was breathtaking. The city stretched to the horizon.
"Sit," Dr. Harrison said. "I’ll order for us. Do you have any dietary restrictions?"
"None."
He nodded and signaled to a waiter.
Veyra sat down. The chair was soft. The tablecloth was crisp. A small vase of roses sat in the center of the table.
She looked out the window. The city looked different from up here. Smaller. More manageable.
Dr. Harrison returned. He sat across from her.
"The waitress," he said. "The one who was rude to you. She’s been dealt with."
"I know. I was there."
"I mean Wesley Wen. He doesn’t tolerate that kind of behavior in his establishments."
Veyra nodded. "Mr. Wen. He’s the owner?"
"Of Bordeaux 101. And several other restaurants. And a hotel chain. And a media company." Dr. Harrison smiled. "He’s also a close friend of your husband’s."
Veyra’s eyebrows rose, was he the same person her husband had uttered last night. "Dorian’s friend?"
"They’ve known each other for years. Business partners. Occasional rivals. But always friends." Dr. Harrison paused. "He’s also the one who helped me get my start in cardiology. Years ago. He funded my research when no one else would."
Veyra looked across the restaurant. Wesley Wen was still standing by the hostess podium. He was watching her.
Their eyes met.
He smiled. He walked toward their table.
"Mrs. Thorne," Wesley said. He stopped beside their table. "I’m Wesley Wen. I’ve heard a great deal about you."
Veyra stood. She extended her hand. "It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Wen."
He took her hand. His grip was firm. His palm was warm.
"Please, call me Wesley." He held her hand a moment longer than necessary. "I watched the video from the pizza shop. The one where you subdued Xie Heng with an empty gun."
Veyra’s heart jumped. "You saw that?"
"Li Wei sent it to Dorian. Dorian showed it to me." Wesley’s smile widened. "You’re remarkable. Most people would have frozen. You walked right into the middle of it."
"It was stupid," Veyra said. "The gun was empty. If he had called my bluff—"
"But he didn’t." Wesley released her hand. "That’s the thing about bluffing. It only works if you believe it yourself. You believed it. So he believed it."
Veyra said nothing.
Wesley leaned closer. His voice dropped. "I’m very interested in you, Mrs. Thorne."
Veyra’s instincts flared.
There was something about Wesley Wen. Something behind the smile. Behind the easy charm. He was handsome. Polished. Charismatic.
But her gut told her he was dangerous.
The kind of man who smiled while he cut your throat.
She stepped back. Her heel hit the leg of her chair. She used the excuse to create distance.
"I’m flattered," she said. "But I’m just a housewife. There’s nothing interesting about me."
Wesley’s eyes glittered. "I disagree."
Dr. Harrison cleared his throat. "Wesley, let the woman sit down. We have business to discuss."
Wesley laughed. "Of course. Forgive me. I get carried away." He gestured to the chair. "Please, sit. Enjoy your meal. The sea bass is exceptional today."
Veyra sat down. Wesley nodded at her. Then he walked away.
She watched him go. Her heart was pounding.
"Be careful with that one," Dr. Harrison said quietly.
"What do you mean?"
"Wesley Wen is a good man. But he’s also a shark. He collects interesting people. And once he has his eye on someone, he doesn’t let go easily."
Veyra looked at the menu. Her hands were steady. But her mind was racing.
"I’ll keep that in mind," she said.
*
*
Across the city, Dorian sat at the head of a long conference table.
The meeting room was glass and steel. Twenty executives sat on either side of the table. A projector screen displayed quarterly sales figures. A man in a gray suit was speaking. Something about market share. Something about projections.
Dorian was not listening.
His phone buzzed.
He glanced at the screen. A message from Wesley Wen.
Dorian, your little wife is indeed very interesting.
Dorian’s jaw tightened.
He did not respond. He looked at the speaker. Nodded. Pretended to be engaged.
His hand moved under the table. He typed a message to Li Wei.
Where is Veyra?
The response came quickly.
Bordeaux 101. Lunch with Dr. Harrison.
Dorian’s thumb hovered over the screen. Then another message came through. A video.
He pressed play.
The video showed the restaurant entrance. Clarisse at the podium. The Whitmore party laughing. Veyra standing aside, her face pale, her hands clasped in front of her.
Then Wesley appeared. He fired Clarisse. He walked toward Veyra. He leaned close.
Too close.
Dorian’s face darkened.
Then Veyra stepped back. She created distance. She put her chair between them.
Dorian’s expression softened. Just a fraction.
He watched the rest of the video. Veyra sitting down. Wesley walking away.
He set the phone down.
"Mr. Thorne?" The man in the gray suit looked nervous. "Is everything all right?"
"Continue," Dorian said.
The man continued.
Dorian picked up his phone again. He typed a response to Wesley.
Don’t you dare make a move on her for a year.
The response came almost immediately.
A year from now, I’ll have much more in mind than just what I’m thinking now.
Dorian stared at the screen and his eyes turned icy cold.