Currently...
The servers were shadows in tailored black, five silent phantoms orbiting our table of thirty-two with the kind of lethal grace that only comes from serving people who can ruin your life with a phone call. Gloved hands, mirrored trays, no sound but the faint clink of crystal and the hush of thousand-dollar shoes on marble. Every time one passed, the air shifted—truffle, caviar, cold brine, money.
Jasmine lifted an oyster, mother-of-pearl flashing like wet moonlight under the chandeliers. She studied it the way civilians study grenades.
"This is real caviar."
"Ossetra," I said. "Caspian sturgeon. The good shit."
She tipped the shell back. The oyster slid between her lips whole. Her eyes slammed wide, lashes fluttering, throat working in a slow, obscene swallow. A bead of brine clung to her bottom lip before her tongue swept it away.
"Jesus fucking Christ," she breathed, voice already wrecked. "That's pornographic."
