He poured a pitcher of ice water on a waiter for "spilling three drops," completely oblivious that the waiter owned the entire restaurant.

“Why?” Winifred repeated, her voice hushed beneath the low hum of the jazz trio playing near the bar.

Julian wiped a trickle of ice water from the curve of his jaw with the back of his thumb. The chill had soaked straight through the cotton server’s shirt, plastering the fabric to his ribs like wet paper. Several ice cubes still sat melting on the parquet flooring beside Table Nine, catching the warm glow of the amber sconces.

“Because pride forgets,” Julian said quietly, his voice completely level. “Evidence doesn't.”

Across the dining room, Table Nine had resumed its boisterous conversation. Max Strand was leaning back in his velvet wingchair, swirling a heavy pour of aged cabernet, laughing with his three business associates. To Max, emptying a full crystal carafe over a waiter’s head wasn't an incident. It was pest control. It was the natural, unquestioned privilege of a man who believed the world existed solely to cater to his temper.

“Julian,” Winifred whispered, her eyes sharp with worry and twenty-five years of maternal protectiveness. “You have fifty guests in this room watching. If word gets out that someone treated staff like that in the Marlow Room without being thrown out on their ear, the kitchen will mutiny by midnight. They don’t know who you are. They think you’re just a temp getting bullied by an arrogant jerk.”

“Let them watch,” Julian replied, adjusting his damp collar. “Call Marcus. Tell him to pull the full audit on Strand Urban Systems. Not the executive summary he prepped for the nine o’clock meeting. I want the vendor payment histories. I want the factory floor turnover rates. And I want the personal credit lines Max opened in Delaware three weeks ago.”

Winifred’s gaze narrowed. A slow, knowing smile touched the corners of her mouth. “You’re not canceling the nine o’clock meeting, are you?”

“Why would I cancel it?” Julian picked up a linen bar towel from the station tray, patting the worst of the moisture from his cuffs. “Mr. Strand came here tonight looking for forty million dollars to save his grandfather’s manufacturing empire. It would be remarkably bad manners to keep him waiting.”

Julian stepped out from behind the service station, his posture upright, his shoulders squared. He didn't slink toward the back hallways like an embarrassed busboy. He walked deliberately past Table Nine.

Max Strand caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and snapped his fingers without looking up. “Hey. Water boy. Tell the sommelier that this vintage tastes like wet cedar. If I’m paying six hundred a bottle, I want something that actually breathes.”

Julian paused. For three heartbeats, the air between the tables turned razor-thin. One of Max’s junior executives, a young man in an ill-fitting designer suit, glanced up, caught Julian’s calm, slate-gray eyes, and shrank back into his seat, sensing something entirely out of place.

“I’ll inform the cellar immediately, sir,” Julian said, his tone devoid of sarcasm, perfectly polished.

Max gave an irritated wave of his manicured hand, not even bothering to glance at the man he had soaked five minutes earlier. “Make it fast. I’ve got a meeting upstairs with the owner of Rook Holdings in forty minutes. I don’t have time to wait on amateurs.”