The tables were already being prepared for another expensive dinner.
White linens.
Crystal glasses.
Flowers.
Candles.
Everything looked almost exactly as it had on the night of the wager.
Nadia glanced toward Elena.
“Do you regret it?”
Elena looked at the table where Antoine had sat.
For several seconds, she considered the question.
Then smiled.
“I regret how much it frightened me afterward.”
Nadia nodded.
Elena continued.
“But I don't regret answering.”
Her friend smiled.
Then asked, “What was the first thing you said in Spanish?”
Elena laughed softly.
“You were there.”
“I know. I want to hear it again.”
Elena looked toward the empty table.
Then answered quietly.
“¿Quién asume realmente el riesgo?”
Who really bears the risk?
Nadia smiled.
“Sounds like a good question.”
Elena nodded.
“It usually is.”
Then the two women hugged.
And Elena walked out of the restaurant wearing her own clothes, carrying the uniform that had helped pay for her education.
For the first time, she wasn't leaving exhausted after serving a room full of powerful strangers.
She was leaving because she'd chosen the next step in her life.
Six months later, Elena returned to La Verrière.
This time, she didn't enter through the staff corridor.
She arrived through the main entrance wearing an elegant midnight-blue gown, a simple silver necklace, and a tailored black coat.
Her long hair was styled in soft curls around her shoulders.
She looked beautiful.
But what mattered most to her wasn't the dress.
It was the invitation in her handbag.
The independent economic institute had organized a dinner bringing together researchers, infrastructure investors, public officials, and representatives of organizations working with smaller producers.
Elena had been asked to present a short discussion about the importance of transparent commercial assumptions in international investment.
The dinner was being hosted at La Verrière.
The coincidence had made her laugh when she first received the invitation.
She nearly declined.
Then Professor Ibarra reminded her that a restaurant was a place, not a verdict on who belonged there.
So Elena accepted.
When she entered, the hostess greeted her warmly.
“Good evening, Madame Marković.”
Elena smiled.
“Good evening.”
The woman checked the reservation.
Then gestured toward the private dining room.
“Your party is expecting you.”
Elena thanked her.
Then walked down the familiar corridor.
She remembered carrying trays through those doors.
Remembered the weight of crystal glasses.
The pressure of getting every detail right.