The mood at Table 12 shifted palpably. Tiffany’s smirk had faltered, replaced by a thin veneer of forced cheerfulness. Mark, seemingly oblivious to the nuance of what had transpired, attempted to recover some semblance of normalcy, but the shift in atmosphere was undeniable.

The maître d’, Pierre, stepped in next with a dancer’s grace, his presence designed to soothe tensions and restore order. “Monsieur, Madame,” he purred, “I am happy to assist you with any additional needs this evening. Please, enjoy the finest offerings of our menu with our compliments.”