I leaned on the railing and watched, my gaze sweeping the floor. Everything had to be perfect. That was the deal here. I didn’t cater to tourists or casual drop-ins. This was where everyone came to make something of themselves.
My assistant, Elias, hovered by the entry podium, double-checking names on the list I’d curated myself. No one entered without my approval. Not the mayor’s latest fling. Not the werewolf socialite still clawing her way back from last week’s scandal. And certainly not the gossipmonger who dared call my lounge “depressingly pretentious” at last week’s brunch.
I’d crossed her name off with a stroke of my pen so sharp it’d practically cut through the paper.
One of the newer servers passed beneath my gaze, tray balanced, posture impeccable. She didn’t look up. None of them ever did. Not out of fear—though I wasn’t above cultivating that emotion—but because they knew better. Distraction was for patrons. Precision was for staff.
Elias shuffled the papers back into order, then tapped them once against the podium to straighten their edges. Once he had them nice and neat, he slid the list into a leather folio and headed up the stairs toward me. He passed everything over without a word.
I took the folio but didn’t open it. “How are we looking tonight?”
“We’ll reach capacity,” he told me. “The waitlist is already spilling into next week. The James family sent word—they want to hold their annual masquerade next week. I told them to reconsider so that they avoid competing with your Thursday showcase.”
“They’ll reschedule,” I said flatly. “They always do.”
“I made a few changes to the list, based on recent events,” Elias told me.
I opened the folio and quickly scanned the pages. Names, titles, affiliations. Some underlined, some circled, a few neatly scratched out in red ink. Nothing surprising.
“The witch twins?” I asked.
“Confirmed. Arriving at ten sharp. They’ve requested the left booth near the fireplace.”
I clicked my tongue. “They can have the booth. But no summoning during service hours. Last time, the scent lingered for days.”
Elias nodded, already making a note. “The shifter envoy has also returned. Apparently, he wishes to extend an olive branch after last month’s…disagreement.”
I arched a brow. “Is that what we’re calling it? Disagreement? I recall broken bones and blood on the floor.”
“He’s very sorry.”
“I’m sure he is,” I said. “Tell him The Veil accepts his apology. And remind him what happens to those who mistake my forgiveness for weakness.”
Another nod.
I closed the folio with a soft snap. “Anything else?”
“One more matter, sir. From your father.”
I finally turned, just enough to meet his eyes.
Elias hesitated. “He’s requested your presence at the estate. Tonight.”
Of course he had.
“When?” I asked.
“Immediately, sir.”
I exhaled, then dragged my hand down my jaw. “Very well. Summon the driver.”
“I already have.”
“What would I do without you, Elias?”
He didn’t answer. Just inclined his head and retreated, leaving me alone once more at the railing, my gaze sweeping across the floor.
My father ruled with the quiet, unflinching authority of a vampire who’d spent centuries shaping this town into something worthy of our name. Where others scraped and clawed for power, he cultivated it. Ignoring a summons from Ambrose St. Germain wasn’t something one did. Not even his sons.
