For a moment, she considered telling Étienne that her research created a potential conflict.
But she wouldn't be negotiating.
Wouldn't be discussing confidential work.
She would be serving dinner.
And nothing about the shift required her to reveal what she knew.
She decided to remain professional.
At seven-thirty, the guests began arriving.
Antoine Delcourt entered first.
He was sixty-one, tall, silver-haired, and impeccably dressed in a dark tailored suit with a burgundy silk tie.
His confidence appeared almost physical.
He shook hands.
Made jokes.
Complimented the restaurant's view.
And greeted the investors as though their decision to finance his expansion were already assured.
Beside him walked Luc Moreau, the group's chief financial director.
Luc was younger, with closely trimmed dark hair, rectangular glasses, and a manner that suggested he preferred spreadsheets to conversation.
Elena recognized his name from project correspondence.
He had signed several statements supporting the expansion's financial assumptions.
Among the remaining guests was Inés Valcárcel, a Spanish investor known for demanding meticulous analysis before committing capital.
She wore a simple black gown and pearl earrings, and her expression was calm but observant.
A Portuguese infrastructure specialist named Beatriz Silva sat nearby, along with several French executives, an attorney, and two representatives of a European investment consortium.
Elena greeted the guests.
Poured water.
And quietly began the evening's service.
For the first forty minutes, everything went smoothly.
The kitchen performed beautifully.
The wine was served at the appropriate temperature.
And the guests discussed markets, shipping routes, and the attractiveness of Spanish logistics infrastructure.
Then Antoine began complaining about the restaurant's Spanish-language menu recommendations.
One of the investors wanted to discuss regional dishes and wine pairings.
Antoine waved toward a waiter.
“Surely someone here speaks proper Spanish.”
Étienne approached.
“Of course, monsieur. We can arrange assistance.”
Antoine sighed.
“I've traveled throughout Spain. There's nothing more irritating than somebody claiming fluency and then struggling with basic conversation.”
Elena was standing beside the table, refilling a glass of water.
She answered before realizing Antoine was directing the complaint toward the staff.
“I can assist, monsieur. I speak Spanish fluently.”
He looked up.
For a moment, he seemed almost amused by the idea.
“You?”
Elena nodded politely.
“Yes, monsieur.”
Antoine examined her uniform.
Then laughed.
“Fluently?”
“Yes.”
Luc Moreau smiled into his wineglass.
A man across the table chuckled.
Elena remained still.
Antoine leaned backward.
“People use that word rather generously.”