Chapter 7 No.7

"I booked a table at DeFay's," Haywood's text read. "Lunch before the conference. A peace offering."

It was a power move. He wanted to make sure she was under his thumb before she stepped in front of the cameras.

Hester walked into the restaurant at 12:30 PM. It was high-end, filled with socialites and business tycoons. Haywood was already seated at a corner booth, waving at her. He stood up to hug her, but she turned slightly so his hands landed on her shoulders.

"You look... tired," he said, scanning her face. "Good. It sells the narrative."

They sat down. A waiter appeared immediately.

"I already ordered for you," Haywood said, smiling benevolently. "The Salmon with dill sauce. I know you're watching your weight."

Hester froze. She stared at him. "I'm allergic to salmon, Haywood. My throat closes up. We went to the ER three years ago because of it."

Haywood waved a dismissive hand. "I know, but it's the chef's special, and Mr. Laurent from Vogue is at the next table. Just have a small bite for appearances. Don't be dramatic. We need to look united."

Before Hester could respond, the Executive Chef appeared at the table. He was a large man with a stern face.

"Mr. Mckee," the Chef said, bowing slightly. "Apologies, but we ran out of the salmon moments ago."

Haywood frowned. "This is a Michelin star restaurant. How do you run out of fish?"

"However," the Chef continued, ignoring him and turning to Hester. "For Ms. Irwin, we have prepared the Wagyu Beef and White Truffle Risotto."

He placed the plate in front of her. The smell was intoxicating-earthy truffle, rich butter. It was her absolute favorite dish. It cost $400 a plate.

"I didn't order that," Haywood snapped. "Who pays for this?"

"Compliments of the house," the Chef said smoothly. "And a patron who wishes to remain anonymous."

A sommelier stepped forward and poured a glass of red wine for Hester. "Château Margaux, 1998. Your birth year, Madame."

Hester's heart skipped a beat. She looked around the room. In the far corner, near the kitchen entrance, she saw Silas. He nodded once, barely perceptible, then vanished.

Isham was watching. He wasn't here, but his reach was.

Haywood laughed nervously. "Ah, I must have mentioned it to my assistant to call ahead. See? I take care of you."

He was lying. He was stealing credit for another man's gesture because his ego couldn't handle not being the provider.

Hester picked up her fork. She cut into the steak. It was rare, red juice flowing onto the white risotto. She took a bite. It melted on her tongue.

She looked at Haywood. He was eating a bread roll, talking with his mouth full about stock prices and how the "apology" would boost engagement. He looked small. He looked cheap.

Her phone buzzed in her lap.

Eat. You need strength to destroy him.

Hester chewed slowly, savoring the truffle. The fear that had been gripping her stomach all morning began to dissipate, replaced by a cold, hard resolve.

Haywood slid a piece of paper across the table. "Here's the script. Memorize it. Don't improvise."

Hester took the paper. She didn't read it. She folded it and put it in her purse.

"Don't worry, Haywood," she said, taking a sip of the 1998 vintage. "I'll say exactly what needs to be said."