Chapter 3
Iris's POV
Saturday night. Manhattan.
L'Étoile sat on the top floor of an old building—nothing much from the outside, but the second the elevator doors opened you could smell the truffle and butter before you saw anything else.
Crystal chandeliers covered the ceiling. Tables spaced far enough apart that you'd never hear your neighbors. Quiet. Expensive.
The place was known for two things: reservations you couldn't get, and bills that could stop your heart.
Lysandra walked in first, chin up.
Brittany and Jessica flanked her. I trailed behind in my gray hoodie.
"Miss Hale, welcome." The floor manager, Pierre, came forward with a wide smile and greeted Lysandra with a kiss on each cheek, speaking French.
"Pierre, your best private room tonight." Lysandra answered in French, then dropped her voice. "And make sure our little charity case gets the 'special' menu."
Pierre got the picture. "Of course, mademoiselle."
They thought no one else could follow that exchange.
I raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
I followed them into a private dining room at the back. The door closed and the outside world disappeared.
Once we sat, Lysandra slid the menu toward me, all sweetness.
"Iris, tonight's a celebration—you were so impressive at that tasting. You obviously know your stuff, so why don't you order for us?"
"Nah, go ahead. I'm easy." I pushed the menu back.
That was the answer she wanted.
Meanwhile, my hand slipped into my hoodie pocket and tapped my phone screen a few times—blind.
St. Clair's campus forum had an anonymous livestream function. Phone half-out of my pocket, camera just visible, audio perfect.
The stream title was simple: Inside a Michelin Dinner with Ivy League Socialites.
Lysandra turned to Pierre and fired off the order in French—fast, like she didn't want me catching any of it.
"Four hidden chef's menus. Beluga caviar to start, double Alba white truffle on the mains. And two bottles of 2005 Romanée-Conti."
Pierre's brows went up. "You're sure? That alone puts you well into six figures."
"So?" Lysandra laughed. "The little hick from Ohio is paying tonight. We're gonna drain every last cent she has."
Pierre glanced at me—half greedy, half pitying. Like watching a lamb that didn't know the knife was out.
"Right away, mademoiselle." He stepped out.
Lysandra turned back, sweet as ever. "Iris, I just ordered a basic set menu—nothing too wild. We're all roommates here, so tonight's your treat, yeah?"
I rested my chin on my hands and looked at her.
"Sure. My treat."
The courses came one after another.
Golden caviar fanned across shell plates. White truffle shaved tableside over fresh pasta, the smell filling the whole room.
The two bottles of Romanée-Conti were carried in by Pierre himself like sacred objects, his hands shaking slightly as he pulled the corks.
Lysandra, Brittany, and Jessica didn't hold back.
They talked in French the whole time, getting louder with every glass.
"Look at the way she eats," Brittany said. "Like she's never been inside a real restaurant in her life."
"Wait till she sees the bill." Lysandra grinned. "She's gonna cry right here at the table. Pierre said he'd double the prices on top."
I cut my steak slowly. Face blank.
They were too caught up to notice the phone glowing in my pocket. Viewer count had jumped from a few hundred to ten thousand and climbing.
Comments flying:
[Hold on—did she just say she's trying to BANKRUPT that girl??]
[They ordered Beluga caviar and Romanée-Conti and called it a "basic set menu"?? That's not dinner, that's a SHAKEDOWN.]
[The manager is IN ON IT?? This place has three Michelin stars and they're pulling this??]
[I recognize her—she's the full-ride freshman at St. Clair. They are literally bullying her on camera.]
Two hours later, the plates were cleared.
Lysandra dabbed her mouth and stood. "I'm gonna go freshen up. Britt, Jess—come."
The three of them walked out.
Almost the same second, the door opened again.
Pierre stepped in. Two men in black suits followed.
They moved to either side of the door, locked it, and stood like walls.
Pierre's warm smile was gone. He crossed to my table, pulled a long receipt from a leather folder, and dropped it in front of me.
"Your bill, miss." He looked down at me. "Four hundred and fifty thousand dollars." A beat. "Card or cash?"
I looked down at the long column of numbers.
