But Caldwell was not alone; tonight was not a social visit. He was flanked by four men, each representing a massive pillar of European wealth. Chloe recognized them instantly from her past life reading global financial dossiers.
There was Alejandro Navarro, a Spanish real estate magnate whose family owned half of Madrid's commercial sector. To his right sat Jean-Luc Fontaine, a French logistics baron with a notorious temper. Across from them were Klaus Richter, a German engineering tycoon, and Lorenzo Romano, an Italian shipping heir.
"This is the biggest deal of Caldwell's life," Thomas whispered to the waitstaff, wiping sweat from his forehead. "He is trying to secure a joint venture with the Europeans. If he pulls this off, he monopolizes transatlantic shipping routes. I want absolute perfection. Chloe, you're on table seven. You're our most composed server. Do not mess this up."
Chloe swallowed hard. The irony was suffocating. The man who had destroyed her career was sitting fifty feet away, unaware that the waitress about to serve his truffles was the very woman he had thrown to the wolves.
She could have asked to switch tables. She could have claimed she was feeling ill. But a strange, burning defiance ignited in her chest. She picked up her silver tray, straightened her posture, and walked out into the dining room.
As she approached the alcove, Caldwell was already holding court, projecting his booming voice over the ambient jazz.
"The American market is the only market that matters, gentlemen," Caldwell proclaimed in slow, overly enunciated English, as if speaking to children. "You partner with me, and I give you the keys to the kingdom."
The four European investors exchanged subtle glances. They all spoke English, but not perfectly, and Caldwell's aggressive, idiomatic phrasing was clearly irritating them. Klaus frowned, tapping his gold watch, while Jean-Luc swirled his water glass with a look of utter boredom.
"Good evening, gentlemen," Chloe said, her voice perfectly modulated. "Welcome to Laura. May I start you with our vintage champagne?"
Caldwell didn't even look at her. He simply flicked his wrist in her direction—a gesture one might use to shoo away a stray dog.
"Just bring the Dom Pérignon, sweetheart, and don't linger. We're discussing things far above your pay grade."
Chloe offered a tight, polite nod. "Right away, sir."