“One hundred thousand dollars.”
The words rolled across the candlelit dining room with the casual confidence of a man who had never worried about what such an amount might mean to somebody earning twelve euros an hour.
Antoine Delcourt leaned backward in his upholstered chair, adjusted the cuff of his expensive charcoal suit, and smiled at the young Black waitress standing beside his table.
“One hundred thousand American dollars,” he repeated. “If you can convince everyone here that you speak Spanish as fluently as you claim.”
The other guests stopped eating.
A silver-haired businessman lowered his wineglass. A blonde woman in a black evening gown glanced uncomfortably toward her husband. Across the circular table, a Spanish investor slowly set down her fork.
The waitress remained perfectly still.
Her name was Elena Marković.
She was twenty-six years old, with beautiful deep chocolate-brown skin, dark expressive eyes, and long black hair gathered into an elegant low ponytail. Her white blouse was neatly pressed beneath a fitted black service vest, and the sleeves were rolled carefully to her elbows.
She stood beside a table whose guests collectively controlled more money than most people in Paris would earn in a thousand lifetimes.
Behind her, enormous windows revealed the illuminated Eiffel Tower rising above the city. The Seine reflected thousands of golden lights, while elegant chandeliers shimmered over polished silverware, crystal glasses, white roses, and expensive bottles of wine.
Everything about the restaurant suggested that wealth was the most important qualification a person could possess.
But Elena looked directly into Antoine's eyes.
“Are you making a serious offer, monsieur?”
His smile widened.
Several executives chuckled.
Antoine raised one hand, inviting his guests to appreciate the entertainment.
“Of course. Unless you were simply exaggerating your abilities.”
Elena glanced toward the wineglass she had been preparing to refill.
Then she carefully placed her black notepad beside the bottle.
“I accept.”
The laughter stopped.
Antoine blinked.
For the first time that evening, his expression revealed genuine surprise.
“You accept?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
He leaned forward.
“Perhaps you misunderstand the difficulty. I am not asking whether you can order coffee or introduce yourself in Spanish.”
Elena nodded.
“I understand.”
“I mean genuine fluency. Complex subjects. Economics. Law. International relations.”
“Of course.”
The blonde woman exchanged a glance with the Spanish investor.
Antoine noticed.
He smiled more broadly.
“Very well, then. International economic policy.”
Elena folded her hands calmly.