It was a Friday night in late October. The dining room was a cacophony of crystal clinking against china and the low, confident hum of power. Josh, the floor manager, pulled me aside near the kitchen pass.<\/p>\n
\u201cLucia, Table Twelve. VIP,\u201d Josh whispered, looking more stressed than usual. \u201cHe asked for privacy and the best server we have. That\u2019s you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWho is it?\u201d<\/p>\n
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\u201cAdrien Keller.\u201d<\/p>\n
I felt a flicker of recognition. \u201d The tech guy? He\u2019s eating alone?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe requested the private corner table. Back to the wall. No fuss. Just service. Don\u2019t hover.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cGot it.\u201d<\/p>\n
I smoothed my apron, grabbed a pitcher of ice water, and walked to Table Twelve. Adrien Keller sat in the shadows of the corner booth. He looked younger than his forty-five years, though his dark blonde hair was beginning to silver at the temples. He wore a charcoal suit, no tie, the top button of his shirt undone. He was reading something on his phone, his brow furrowed not in anger, but in a profound, heavy silence.<\/p>\n
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