“Job? Did you major in ‘luxury’ at college?” I'm only half joking.
Antoine smiles, slowing his pace as Snorty stops to sniff a potted orchid.
“I am a consultant to the rich and famous. I specialize in image management and lifestyle orchestration. When a celebrity needs discretion, reinvention, or a flawless public moment, I’m the one they call.”
“But how did you get that job?”
“If I tell you, I’d have to kill you,” he says with a little gleam in his eye.
I laugh, but the sound is cut short as my stomach rumbles. Loudly.
“Hungry?”
“I left the house early,” I admit, pressing a hand to my stomach. “I was too nervous to eat breakfast.”
“Well then. Lunch is in order. We cannot build an empire on an empty stomach.”
Snorty yips once, as if backing him up.
Antoine gestures toward the restaurant at the end of the arcade.
“Come,” he says, eyeing my new jeans approvingly. “Food now. Media prep later. Rio won't know what hit him.”
CHAPTER 9
MADDIE
The posh Belle Monde restaurant sits at the top of the Las Palmas Hotel, slowly turning like a giant clock.
Every few minutes the floor shifts imperceptibly, revealing a different angle of the Las Vegas skyline.
Glass towers, desert haze, and a neon shimmer that fights against the midday sun. It feels unreal, like someone turned the entire city into a movie set.
The maître d’ recognizes Antoine immediately and greets him with warm, hushed familiarity.
Within thirty seconds, we’re escorted to a prime window table where the city glitters below us and the linen is as crisp as a wedding dress.
“Would your pet like to sit at the table or have his place setting on the floor?” the maître d’ asks.
I look at Antoine. He makes no comment, just raises an eyebrow.
“Well, he is a dog… so I suppose the floor.”
“As you wish, madame.”
As soon as the maître d’ turns away, Snorty yips withindignation. He’s only pacified a moment later when a server brings him an ornate tray containing two silver bowls.
One holds delicious-looking food that smells enticing, even to a human like me.
And the other bowl contains water.
Another server sweeps in and unfolds my napkin like I’m royalty.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” I tell Antoine. “It’s gorgeous.”
Before Antoine can respond, a waiter approaches to take our order. Antoine switches to flawless French, his voice quiet and elegant. The waiter nods, scribbles nothing, and slips away.
I blink at him. “You speak French?”
