Chapter 3 - The Cold Edge of Margot Sinclair’s Diamond
“Augustine,” Margot said, her voice instantly shifting into a sweet, melodic lilt. “You’re early. Julian and I were just having a quick breakfast before the board meeting.”
Gus did not look at Margot.
He did not look at Julian.
His eyes remained fixed on Dela, who was still kneeling on the marble floor, her fingers clutching the damp white towel.
“Get up,” Gus said.
His voice wasn't loud. It was a low, resonant baritone that carried the absolute weight of command.
Dela placed one hand on the floor, braced herself against the dull throb in her pelvis, and rose to her feet. She kept her chin level, refusing to drop her gaze, meeting Gus’s iron-gray eyes with unblinking defiance.
For a fraction of a second, something flared behind Vandermir’s cold mask.
Surprise? Recognition?
Whatever it was, it vanished before anyone else could see it.
“Mr. Vandermir,” Dela said calmly. “I will bring fresh linens.”
“No,” Gus said. He turned his head slowly toward Margot. “Why is there water on the floor, Margot?”
Margot gave an airy, dismissive shrug, though the diamond on her finger trembled slightly against the table. “The girl was careless with the pitcher, Gus. I told her she needs to be more attentive. It’s embarrassing for the Meridian to have staff who can’t hold a tray.”
Julian chimed in, trying to regain his swagger. “Honestly, Gus, the standards around here have slipped. You should let the manager clean house.”
Gus walked forward.
He didn't rush. He moved with the slow, terrifying confidence of an apex predator inside his own territory.
He stopped at the edge of the booth, resting one large, scarred hand on the corner of the table. He leaned down slightly, his face inches from Julian’s.
“Did you pour the water, Julian?” Gus asked softly.
Julian swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. “No... Margot was just explaining—”
“Did she drop the pitcher?” Gus asked, turning his gaze back to Margot.
Margot’s smile tightened into a thin, brittle line. “Augustine, why are you interrogating me over a clumsy waitress? She’s an employee. She spilled the water, I asked her to wipe it. That is her job.”
Gus stood straight.
He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a pristine white linen pocket square, and turned to Dela.
He held it out to her.
The entire dining room—the busboys, the hostess by the podium, the two private security guards standing by the elevators—froze in collective disbelief.
Augustine Vandermir did not hand things to servers.
He did not acknowledge the help.
Dela looked at the white linen in his hand. “Thank you, sir, but I have service cloths in the back.”
“Take it,” Gus said.
It wasn't an offer.
Dela took the linen. Their fingers brushed for less than half a second. His skin was warm, his grip steady as steel.
“Go to the back,” Gus told her. “Change your jacket. If you are cold, tell Teddy to turn on the radiant heaters in the south pantry.”
“Thank you, Mr. Vandermir.”
Dela turned on her heel and walked through the swinging kitchen doors without looking back.
Behind her, she heard Gus’s voice cut through the air like a butcher’s cleaver.
“Margot.”
“Yes, darling?”
“If you ever spill water on my floor again,” Gus said, his tone dead and flat, “you will clean it with your own hands. Do you understand me?”
“Augustine! How dare you speak to me like that in front of the staff—”
“Do you understand me, Margot?”
A suffocating silence followed.
“Yes,” Margot whispered, choked with humiliation.
Inside the kitchen, Dela leaned back against the heavy steel preparation table, her chest heaving.
The linen pocket square in her hand was warm.
Tucked inside its folds was a small, stiff piece of cardstock.
Dela unfolded the linen with trembling fingers.
May you like
On the card was a five-digit number and a brief note written in the exact same handwriting as the midnight envelope:
“Freight elevator 4. Basement Sub-Level 2. Midnight tonight. Come alone, Mrs. Hawthorne.”
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