The Almighty Dominance novel Chapter 787

The Grand Hotel's ballroom held four hundred people, and on the night of the Baroness Tiffany's eightieth birthday it held four hundred and twelve.

Three gold chandeliers hung over a white marble floor. A string quartet played on a low stage, and at the head table, under the middle chandelier, the Baroness sat in black lace and pearls, small and straight, her white hair pinned so tightly it looked painful.

Alexander arrived at the service door, because he wasn't allowed to use the front.

Pauline was waiting for him there, tall, in dove grey, with something white folded over her arm.

"Put this on," she said coldly.

He unfolded it. It was a short white waiter's jacket with brass buttons and the Grand Hotel's crest on the pocket.

"I'm a guest," he said, soft and puzzled.

"You're a married-in husband below the married-in husbands," Pauline said, smooth and cold as a menu. "There aren't enough chairs. There are, however, a great many trays." She handed it over with two fingers, as if it were damp. "It's the only role you're useful for. Smile, Count. And don't drop anything."

Behind her, two of the hotel's real waiters exchanged a look, and one of them snorted.

"Is that the prince?" the younger one whispered, when Pauline had gone.

"That's him," the older one muttered.

"The Tenth Prince?" Marco breathed, delighted. "Serving drinks?"

"Thirty years I've worked Tiffany birthdays," the older one growled. "Fifty years they've had them here. On this coast a married-in man gets seated by his dowry and served last, and I've never once seen one carry a tray."

He shrugged. "First time for everything. Shut up and give him a tray, Marco."

Marco was thin and young, with a folded white cloth over his arm. He gave Alexander a tray with twelve glasses of champagne on it.

"Rule one," he whispered, almost kindly. "You hold it flat, on your fingertips, not your palm. Rule two: you don't look at the guests. They don't like it when we look." He thought about it. "Rule three. If you drop something, it was the guest's fault. Rule four: it's never the guest's fault."

"So rule three is a trick," Alexander said seriously.

"Rule three is the only one that keeps you sane," Marco said flatly. "Rule four is the one that keeps you employed."

"Thank you," Alexander said warmly. "That's the most useful thing anyone's told me in this city."

"It's the only thing anyone's told you in this city, isn't it?" Marco said, surprised.

"Yes," Alexander admitted cheerfully. "But it's still the most useful."

Marco looked at him oddly, as if a joke had gone the wrong way, and handed him a cloth as well.

…

The ballroom glittered, and every family in Westmere that mattered knew exactly who the new waiter was.

"Is that him?" a girl squealed, delighted.

"In the jacket! Look!" her brother laughed.

"Oh, that's priceless," her mother laughed. "Pauline's a genius."

"Does he know which end of the glass to hold?" someone sneered.

A woman at a corner table snapped her fingers at him. "Waiter! Over here, waiter!"

"Yes, madam," he said politely.

"Say Your Highness, darling, he likes it," her husband drawled, smug.

"Yes, Your Highness," Alexander told the woman, perfectly serious, and the whole table shrieked.

A big man with a red face and a booming laugh, in a very good suit, reached out and took two glasses at once.

"Well, well, well! A prince with a tray!" he roared happily, and clapped Alexander on the cheek, not quite hard enough to be a slap. "Bellamy's never been served by royalty before. Hugo Bellamy. I ship everything this hotel eats, son. Every oyster on that table came in on my boats."

"They're very good oysters, sir," Alexander said politely.

"They're the best oysters. Forty years my family's fed this hotel. Your Tiffanys too." Hugo laughed, and his whole table laughed with him. "Tell your grandmother-in-law Bellamy says happy birthday. Oh, wait. You're not allowed to talk to her, are you?"

"Not yet, sir," Alexander said, calm and mild as milk.

"Not yet! Did you hear that? Not yet!" Hugo wiped his eyes, delighted. "I like him. He's funny. Go on, son. Fetch me another oyster."

…

Patricia was waiting by the dance floor in white silk, with diamonds at her throat and a smile that never stopped.

She stepped directly into his path.

"Oh, careful," she said sweetly.

Then she tipped her own full glass of red wine down the front of her gown, and screamed.

The quartet stopped. Four hundred heads turned.

"He threw it at me!" Patricia's voice cracked beautifully. "He threw it at me! Grandmother! My gown!"

"I didn't," Alexander said quietly.

"You did!" she wailed. "Everybody saw!"

"Grab him!" Preston bellowed, tall and red-faced, already shoving through the crowd with his phone up. "Somebody grab him! He did it on purpose!"

Alexander didn't move. He looked at the glass. It was still in Patricia's hand.

"Then why is the glass in your hand, cousin?" he asked mildly.

"Because I caught it!" she sobbed.

"Full?" he asked softly.

"Don't you dare talk to me!" Patricia's tears came faster. "Grandmother, he's arguing with me!"

But at the nearest table, two women were looking at the glass now.

"It's still full," one murmured. "Look. Almost to the top."

"Then what's on her dress?" the other whispered.

"The other half," her friend whispered, and hid a smile behind her fan.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify