Chapter 4 - SIXTY SILVER DOMES
By 11:15 AM, the penthouse dining room looked like a palace salon. Through the living room windows, the Chicago skyline sparkled under the midday sun, but inside, the air was thick with the suffocating scent of Fiona’s expensive gardenia perfume.
Over twenty of Fiona’s elite socialite friends sat around the extended mahogany table, draped in silk blouses and pearl necklaces, sipping champagne that Julian had uncorked from my private collection. Fiona held court at the head of the table like an empress dowager, draped in an emerald satin dress.
“My Julian is simply too traditional,” Fiona proclaimed loudly, waving a manicured hand as her friends murmured admiration. “He insisted that modern catering lacks soul. He told me, ‘Mother, for your diamond jubilee, Sloan will cook every single course with her own hands.’ In our family, devotion is demonstrated through labor.”
Julian stood behind her chair, a smug grin plastered across his face. He kept checking his watch, his knuckles whitening with anticipation. He was waiting for 11:30 AM. He was waiting for the clock to strike so he could dramatically announce to the room that his useless wife had failed, abandoned her duties, and run away.
At 11:28 AM, the foyer chime rang.
Julian’s smile widened maliciously. “Ah. Let’s see what excuses she dragged home.”
He marched to the front door and pulled it open, his mouth already forming an insult. But the words died in his throat.
Standing in the hallway wasn't a weeping, broken wife with greasy shopping bags. It was a fleet of eight impeccably dressed French servers in black tuxedos, led by Antoine himself, pushing six gleaming stainless steel banquet carts. Resting on the tiers were sixty heavy, mirror-polished silver cloches, each emitting the faint, intoxicating aroma of rosemary, caramelized butter, and roasted truffles.
“Delivery for Madame Fiona’s diamond celebration,” Antoine announced in a crisp, booming accent.
Before Julian could process the scene, Antoine and his team swept past him like an invading army. With military precision, the servers lined the long dining table, setting down exactly sixty silver-domed platters. They filled every square inch of the mahogany surface, weaving around crystal wine glasses and floral centerpieces until the table literally groaned under the sheer weight of silver.
Fiona gasped in delight, her eyes glittering with narcissistic triumph. “Oh, Julian! Sixty heritage platters! She actually did it!”
Julian stood paralyzed near the doorway, his eyes darting wildly. He knew what a spread like this cost. He knew the kitchen counters hadn't seen a single pot. “Wait... where is Sloan? Who authorized this?”
“I did,” a voice called out from the foyer.
The entire dining room went dead silent.
I stepped into the dining room. I had washed away every trace of the kitchen floor’s grime. I was wearing an immaculate ivory tuxedo suit, my hair falling in sleek, polished waves over my shoulders, my lips painted crimson. Beside me walked Darcy, holding a slim leather folder, and two uniformed Cook County Sheriff’s deputies who positioned themselves quietly against the entryway arch.
Julian’s skin drained of color. “Sloan? What the hell is this circus? Who are these men?”
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I walked slowly to the head of the table, stopping directly opposite Fiona, who was staring at the police officers with widening eyes.
“Happy sixtieth birthday, Fiona,” I said, my voice ringing clear and smooth across the silent room. “Julian told me that if even one dish was missing from your table today, I’d be kicked out of this house. Well, I’m a woman of my word. Sixty dishes. Sixty distinct courses. But before anyone takes a bite, I believe the birthday girl should lift the first lid.”
