Chapter 12

Le Petit Paris sparkled with old money and new promises, its crystal chandeliers casting dignified light over Miami's elite. Julian adjusted his Rolex – borrowed from Carl – and checked his reflection in a crystal glass, trying to see what Margaret might see in him. The restaurant's air was thick with expense: truffle oil, aged wines, and that indefinable scent of privilege. Around him, women dripped with diamonds while their companions closed million-dollar deals over foie gras. The maître d' glided between tables like a conductor, orchestrating an symphony of wealth and pretense. Even the butter sculptures looked expensive, tiny works of art that would melt away unused. Julian's borrowed watch felt heavy on his wrist, a constant reminder that he was an impostor in this temple of affluence. His reflection stared back at him from every polished surface – the windows, the silverware, the wine glasses – each one asking the same question: could he really pull this off? Could he