Chapter 4 #2
“But—but protocol—” Charlotte sputtered.
“Sometimes being human is more important than protocol,” I said, my voice carrying just enough to ensure the whole room heard. “Now, how about we let Marcus get back to his job without making a scene?”
The look of gratitude on his face was worth whatever social apocalypse I was causing.
I returned to my seat, ignoring the stunned silence that followed me like designer perfume. Charlotte looked like she’d just witnessed someone eat caviar with a plastic fork.
“Well.” Margaret sniffed, adjusting her pearls like they needed emotional support. “I suppose we all have our… moments of temporary insanity.”
Another Victoria-memory surfaced: Margaret had once fired a maid for crying at work when she learned her mother had passed away. Apparently, grief wasn’t in the job description.
“You know what’s insane, Margaret?” I took a deliberate bite of my steak. “Pretending we’re too important to show basic human decency. Speaking of which—” I caught Sarah’s eye as she passed. “Could you make sure Marcus knows the broken dishes are going on my bill?”
Diana’s fork clattered against her plate. “Victoria, darling, are you feeling quite well? Perhaps the heat?—”
“I’m feeling better than I have in ages,” I replied cheerfully. “Amazing what treating people like actual humans can do for your digestion. You should try it sometime, Diana. Might help with that stress-induced acid reflux you’ve been hiding.”
The resulting silence was heavy enough to qualify as a designer accessory.
Alice, who’d been watching this exchange like a tennis match played with hand grenades, suddenly smiled. “You know, Victoria, I rather like this new side of you.”
“Yes, well,” Charlotte managed, her voice strained, “we all appreciate… growth.”
I had a feeling she appreciated it about as much as she’d appreciate finding last season’s shoes in her closet, but hey—baby steps.
“Did you hear?” Margaret’s voice dripped with disdain. “The Robinsons are hosting their gala at The Plaza. As if new money could ever understand the proper way to?—”
“Wait, what’s the difference?” The question popped out before I could stop it, genuine confusion overriding Victoria’s social training. “Between old money and new money, I mean?”
The silence that followed was deafening. Several of the younger women at nearby tables suddenly became very interested in their phones.
Margaret’s face performed an impressive journey from shock to horror. “Victoria! You can’t possibly… Why, they made their fortune in—” She lowered her voice like she was about to say something obscene. “Tech startups.”
“But that’s brilliant, isn’t it?” I found myself saying, my business school knowledge bubbling up—three years of it before Mom’s cancer diagnosis had forced me to choose between finishing my degree and keeping us both alive.
“I mean, look at what tech has done for us. These phones”—I gestured vaguely—“they’ve revolutionized everything.
Banking, communications, even how we order food. Created thousands of jobs too.”
A muffled giggle escaped from one of the nearby tables. Charlotte shot them a glare that could’ve frozen hell.
“Victoria,” Diana whispered, “are you feeling alright?”
“I’m just curious,” I said, genuinely puzzled. “The Robinsons built something amazing from scratch, didn’t they? That’s pretty cool.”
The moment the words left my mouth, I realized how very un-Victoria they were. Behind me, I heard the distinct sound of someone choking on their water.
Margaret’s wineglass nearly slipped from her fingers. “But… but tradition?—”
“Makes good businesses fail,” I blurted out. “Look at what happened to video rental stores when streaming came along. Sometimes new ideas are exactly what we need.”
“Victoria.” A younger woman—Christina, if Victoria’s memory served right—leaned forward with genuine interest. “What do you think about Everett Corporation’s new green energy initiative?”
Oh boy. I probably should’ve stayed quiet, but business was the one subject that always got me excited.
“Actually, it’s brilliant because it’s not just about solar panels and wind turbines.
The real innovation is in energy storage solutions and smart grid technology.
Imagine reducing power wastage while making clean energy more accessible and affordable.
And combining that with their manufacturing expertise?
They could revolutionize how we produce sustainable materials.
The potential for reducing industrial carbon footprints while maintaining productivity is?—”
I caught myself, realizing I was gesturing with my fork like I used to do during study group discussions. Victoria Everett probably didn’t get excited about industrial sustainability.
I cleared my throat but couldn’t help adding, “Plus, it’s just smart business. The market for green tech is exploding, and getting ahead of environmental regulations? That’s just good strategy.”
Margaret looked like she’d just heard her cat speak French. Diana was rapidly typing on her phone, while Alice’s eyes sparkled with barely contained amusement.
“Since when do you follow corporate strategy?” Charlotte asked faintly.
“I… read a lot?” I offered weakly, taking a sip of water and praying someone would change the subject to something more appropriately Victoria-like. Designer handbags, maybe? But part of me couldn’t help wondering what Jason would think of my analysis.
The quiet murmur of lunch was interrupted by what could only be described as the mating call of an enraged socialite. Heads turned, pearls were clutched, and I caught Charlotte muttering, “Oh God, not her,” under her breath like she was summoning divine intervention.
Harper Winters—former social butterfly, current scandal in designer heels—stormed into the dining room.
“You boyfriend-stealing little witch!” She pointed a manicured finger at Fiona Harrison, Charlotte’s niece and notorious party circuit regular, who looked like she’d just found last season’s shoes in her closet.
Charlotte rose, channeling enough forced calm to fill a meditation retreat. “Harper, dear, this is a private function?—”
“Oh, shut it, Charlotte,” Harper snapped, advancing on Fiona with the determination of someone who’d practiced this scene in front of a mirror. “Where better to expose her than in front of everyone? Did you all know she’s been sleeping with Bradley?”
The room erupted in whispers and badly concealed glee.
Around us, chairs scraped as women shifted for a better view, reminding me of sharks smelling blood in designer-perfumed waters.
Phones appeared everywhere—apparently nothing paired better with overpriced salads than potential social destruction.
“Ex-boyfriend,” Fiona stood, chin raised higher than her credit limit. “Or did you forget he dumped you last month?”
“Only because you threw yourself at him at the Hamiltons’ pool party!”
“He was already done with you after you scared off his dog with your drunk karaoke,” Fiona shot back. “Really, Harper? ‘My Heart Will Go On’ fifteen times in a row?”
That’s when Harper lunged, moving surprisingly fast for someone in six-inch heels.
Fiona stumbled back, knocking over a chair with all the theatrics of a daytime soap opera star.
Charlotte was shouting for security; the ma?tre d’ was having what looked like a silent existential crisis, and half the room had their phones out for Manhattan’s most expensive catfight.
“Ladies!” Charlotte’s voice hit a pitch that could shatter stemware. “Security is on their way?—”
“He was mine!” Harper screeched, making another grab for Fiona’s perfectly highlighted hair.
“Please,” Fiona dodged, nearly taking out Diana’s table in the process. “He was already shopping for a new girlfriend the moment you showed up to his family dinner in that tragic excuse for a cocktail dress.”
I watched the scene unfold like a slow-motion train wreck, if trains wore six-inch designer heels and fought over trust fund babies.
Five years of breaking up bar fights had taught me the signs of impending disaster, and Harper’s face was turning the exact shade of red that usually preceded someone wearing their drink.
“At least I didn’t have to buy my way into his bed with Daddy’s credit card!” Harper grabbed Margaret’s wineglass—apparently any port in a social storm—and I knew exactly what was coming next.
“Better than buying my way in with cheap vodka and lower standards!” Fiona snatched Diana’s glass, and suddenly we had a Mexican standoff with hundred-dollar wine.
That’s when my waitressing instincts betrayed my better judgment. I stepped forward, channeling my best last call voice. “Okay, ladies, let’s take a breath here.”
I positioned myself between them, using the same stance that had talked down countless drunk frat boys—slightly sideways, hands visible, voice calm but firm.
“Harper, why don’t you take a seat over here?
” I gestured to an empty chair, the same way I used to guide rowdy customers away from the bar. “Fiona, maybe you could?—”
“Don’t patronize me,” Harper snapped, and right then I realized my mistake. These weren’t drunk customers I could pacify with free breadsticks and water. These were trust fund princesses who’d never heard the word no in their lives.
“I’m just trying to?—”
“To what?” Fiona’s laugh could have frozen champagne. “Play mediator? Please, Victoria. This isn’t one of your little charity projects.”
“Look,” I tried again, my server’s smile firmly in place, “fighting over Bradley Thompson is like having a war over a participation trophy. Trust me, I’ve seen his type?—”
That was my second mistake. Giving actual advice to socialite princesses who’d never worked a day in their lives.