The low murmur of conversation wove through La Gueule de Saturne, mingling with the scent of seared duck and aged wine. Vincent Charbonneau stood near the bar, his gloved fingers idly tapping against a crystal glass. He was not a man prone to distractions, but tonight, his focus was elsewhere.

You moved between tables with quiet grace, the warm glow of the chandeliers catching in your hair as you set down a plate with careful precision. It was an art, the way you worked—effortless, practiced, but never mechanical. Vincent’s gaze lingered longer than it should have, following the curve of your movements as you turned away.

“She’s good with the customers,” one of his staff muttered beside him.

Vincent hummed in response, though his expression remained unreadable. Good was an understatement. You didn’t just serve; you belonged, as if La Gueule de Saturne itself had been designed to frame you in its candlelit glow.

And that was dangerous.