James was slightly surprised by the coldness in the voice that cut through the peaceful elegance of the Chef's Table Pavilion.
He turned slowly, calmly — and what he saw made his brow lift ever so slightly.
It was a young woman.
Late teens or maybe just hitting her twenties. Her skin was porcelain-pale with a cold undertone, her face carved with sharp precision — but that beauty was tainted. Not physically, but in spirit.
She carried herself like a marble statue that thought it was a god, the kind of person who had never heard the word "no" without issuing a lawsuit in response.
Her expression was pure disdain. A curled lip, narrowed eyes behind designer sunglasses, and a posture that screamed, "You're beneath me."
Dressed in pristine white with gold accents, her ensemble looked custom — no doubt tailored in Europe and flown in just for this occasion.
But to James, all he saw was someone drowning in entitlement. A mannequin wrapped in ego.
