The Lamplighter hummed with its usual rhythm—voices blending into a low symphony of clinking glasses, the occasional burst of laughter, the steady shuffle of plates leaving the kitchen. A busy night, but manageable. Predictable. Until he walked in.
Laura barely looked up from the reservation book at first, flipping through the pages as she prepared to greet the next guest. But something in the shift of air—an unspoken weight of entitlement—made her glance up.
The man strode through the entrance with the kind of presence that demanded attention. Not because he was impressive, but because he expected the world to accommodate him. She recognized the type immediately—arrogance wrapped in an expensive suit, dissatisfaction already etched into his features before a single word had been exchang
