Chapter 8 - The Reopening
Two weeks later, the grand reopen of the Monarch Room took place on a crisp Friday night.
The exterior of the building had been entirely refurbished. The grand gold sign now read simply: THE MONARCH.
Inside, the dining room had been transformed. The ostentatious, dark leather furniture had been replaced with bright, modern velvet, soft warm lighting, and vast arrangements of white orchids.
At 7:00 PM, the front doors were unbolted.
The guest list wasn't made up of spoiled developers' sons or corrupt aldermen. It was filled with Chicago’s real cultural elite—famous artists, female entrepreneurs, community leaders, and the quiet, hardworking families who built the city’s neighborhood foundations.
Standing near the host stand, wearing a sleek, tailored black apron over a white dress, was Mia—the young busgirl who had been harassed by Preston’s table two weeks ago. She was now the head hostess, earning triple her previous salary.
In the kitchen, working behind the dishwashing station in a plain gray uniform, was Dennis. He kept his head down, scrubbing pots with furious, humble intensity, knowing that this was the only job he would ever hold in Chicago again.
At 8:30 PM, I walked through the dining room.
I wore an exquisite emerald green silk gown that brushed the polished marble floors, my short pixie cut glistening beneath the crystal chandeliers, my diamond ring reflecting the warm light.
Guests turned as I passed, whispering in quiet admiration.
I was no longer the waitress hiding in the shadows. I was the owner.
I stopped at the edge of the grand alcove—the exact spot where Table Four used to sit. The mahogany table was gone, replaced by a beautiful indoor fountain surrounded by white marble benches and green palms.
A large, broad hand rested gently on the small of my back.
I didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The rich smell of cedar, rain, and expensive tobacco surrounded me like a shield.
Dominic leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
“Satisfied, Mrs. Vale?” he whispered softly.
I turned in his arms, resting my hands against his broad chest, looking up into his dark, breathtaking eyes.
“Almost,” I smiled gently.
“Oh? What’s missing?”
I reached up, touching his jawline with my fingers. “I need you to sit at my best table and let me bring you a drink.”
Dominic let out a low, dark chuckle, his arms tightening around my waist, pulling me flush against his body right in the middle of the crowded dining room.
“I don't think I can afford your service, Elena,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to my lips. “I hear the owner is incredibly expensive.”
May you like
“For you,” I whispered, leaning up to press my lips against his, “it’s on the house.”
Around us, the music played softly, the glasses clinked, and the city of Chicago moved outside the high glass windows—a city that now knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that some women were not to be touched.
