White.
Late fifties.
Lean.
Expensive tuxedo.
Hair carefully gray at the temples.
Unlike the others, he was not laughing as much.
The waitress noticed.
His smile was there.
But his eyes had gone to the painting.
Then to her.
Then away.
The billionaire asked:
“What did they miss?”
The waitress pointed carefully without approaching the canvas.
“The left eyebrow.”
He turned.
“What about it?”
“It’s wrong.”
More laughter.
The billionaire looked toward his own eyebrow.
His guests laughed harder.
He smiled.
“My eyebrow is wrong?”
“No.”
“The painting’s is.”
“And how would you know what my eyebrow looked like thirty years ago?”
The waitress’s mouth went dry.
“Because I don’t think that was originally your eyebrow.”
The billionaire lowered his champagne.
The room quieted slightly.
His business partner stopped smiling.
The waitress continued.
“There’s overpaint.”
One of the Italian guests frowned.
Now interested.
“Where?”
“Above the left eye.”
The waitress pointed.
“And around the jaw.”
The billionaire looked toward the Italian man.
The guest stepped closer to the painting.
He was not an art expert, but he had grown up around collectors.
He tilted his head.
The waitress continued:
“The face was altered.”
The billionaire smiled again.
“You can see restoration from twenty feet away?”
“Not all of it.”
“Then what can you see?”
She looked at the hand.
“The ring.”
He followed her gaze.
“What ring?”
She pointed.
“The one underneath the paint.”
Now everyone moved closer.
The billionaire’s smile thinned.
The waitress could feel the catering manager watching from the doorway.
She knew what he was thinking.
Stop.
Stop now.
She should have.
Instead, the billionaire walked toward a side console and picked up a graphite pencil from a guest book.
He held it toward her.
“All right.”
She looked at him.
“If you know the face better than everyone else, show us.”
The people around him laughed again.
The billionaire pointed toward a large sketchpad used earlier by a designer showing renovation ideas for the penthouse.
“Draw it.”
The waitress did not move.
He smiled.
“What?”
She looked toward the pencil.
“Nothing.”
“You said you used to paint.”
“I did.”
“So prove it.”
The business partner finally spoke.
“This is getting silly.”
The billionaire waved him off.
“I’m having fun.”
The partner’s face tightened.
The billionaire pulled out a chair.
“Come on.”
His tone became playful.
“Three million dollars says I know my own face better than the woman serving my champagne.”