Evening Sir!
The lighting in The Gilded Reserve was designed to make everyone look like they were carved from marble, but Timothy Sterling didn’t need the help. He sat at a corner table—the "Power Table"—nursing a vintage Bordeaux that cost more than the average ASW wrestler’s monthly downside guarantee.
He was mid-way through a critique of the truffle risotto when the server approached.
"Is everything to your liking, Mr. Sterling?"
Timothy didn't look up. He was busy adjusting his silk napkin. "The presentation is adequate. The texture, however, is a bit... under-leveraged. Tell the chef—"
"Tim? Tim Sterling?"
Timothy froze. The voice didn’t have the rehearsed, subservient cadence of a five-star server. It had the shaky, familiar pitch of someone from a life he had long since deleted from his hard drive.
He slowly raised his eyes. Standing there, holding a crumb-scraper like a scepter of defeat, was Marcus. Marcus had been two lockers down from him in prep school. Marcus, the boy who had been voted "Most Likely to Succeed" while Timothy had been voted "Most Likely to Buy the School."
A slow, toxic smirk spread across Timothy’s face. He didn't offer a handshake. He didn't even offer a smile. He simply leaned back, letting the expensive leather of the chair creak.
"Marcus," Timothy drawled, the name sounding like a slur. "I see you’ve found your calling. I suppose someone has to manage the bread service. Tell me, is the 'Market Value' of a sourdough roll trending up this evening?"
Marcus’s face flushed. "I... I’m managing the floor tonight, Tim. It’s good to see you. I heard you were... doing that wrestling thing in the old asylum?"
Timothy’s eyes snapped toward him, cold as a margin call. "I am acquiring a distressed property, Marcus. There is a difference between 'doing' and 'dominating.' I am an Asset. You..." He gestured vaguely at the silver tray in Marcus’s hand. "You are an overhead cost. A line item. A service fee."
He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a crisp hundred-dollar bill, and dropped it into the half-eaten risotto.
"I won't be needing the check. Consider that a tip for the nostalgia. And Marcus?"
Timothy stood up, smoothing his royal blue blazer until not a single wrinkle remained. He leaned in close, the smell of expensive cologne and arrogance filling the space between them.
"Next time I come in, make sure the water is chilled to exactly 42 degrees. I’d hate to have to speak to your supervisor about a lack of... performance."
He walked out without looking back, leaving his former peer standing among the remnants of a meal that cost more than Marcus's rent. As Timothy stepped into the cool night air toward his waiting car, he felt a surge of adrenaline more potent than any win.