Chapter 48

The beautiful woman, clad in a pale yellow dress, white stockings, and pristine white shoes, regarded the grease-stained signboard with undisguised disgust. Her jet-black hair cascaded to her waist, framing a delicate heart-shaped face. A slight frown marred her features, a jarring contrast to her otherwise exquisite appearance.

“Isn’t she Walter’s granddaughter, Queenie Watson?” someone whispered.

“Nonsense. She’s my wife!” a voice retorted.

“Can you lot be any more shameless?” another voice scoffed.

Queenie, her sharp ears catching the taunts of the nearby youngsters, frowned. “Clear the venue,” she instructed a bodyguard.

He bowed slightly, and the other bodyguards surged into the restaurant, terrifying the patrons. Some tumbled to the floor with their chairs.

Walter intervened, “All of you, return.”

The lead bodyguard produced a stack of banknotes. They would bribe the customers rather than force them out, resorting to coercion only if necessary. At Walter's command, the bodyguards retreated.

Queenie pouted. “Grandpa… I don’t want to be near these dirty people. They’re filthy, and it spoils my mood,” she whined, her cloying voice attracting the attention of several of the young men.

“I told you not to come, but you insisted! You’re making demands already. Do you think Jonford belongs to you?” Walter barked. She was his second son’s spoiled, sheltered daughter, and he’d regretted bringing her along, despite her incessant pleading. He'd also harbored a specific plan.

Chastened by her grandfather's anger, Queenie followed obediently. Walter shook his head, then smiled at Brian. “I’ve made a fool of myself, Dr. Tanner.”

Brian, accustomed to wealthy eccentricities, remained unfazed. “My grandmaster and I dined here yesterday. He clearly enjoyed it,” he replied smoothly.

Walter nodded. “Then I must sample their fare.”

The prospect of eating there sent a wave of revulsion through Queenie. She discreetly observed the other diners: young men devouring juicy meat; older men, teeth missing, gorging on fatty cuts, grease glistening on their chins. Queenie’s stomach churned; she felt nauseous.

Brian asked the restaurant owner to clear a table. The owner, noticing the luxurious cars and bodyguards outside, nervously wiped the table with a black rag. “Mr. Tanner, who are these people?” he stammered.

“This is Walter Watson, Jonford’s richest man,” Brian replied with a smile.

Terrified, the owner, in his haste, overturned the table. The richest man in Jonford, dining in his establishment?

“Yesterday's menu, and don't skimp on the good wine,” Walter instructed.

The owner, flustered but relieved, promised to retrieve his great-grandfather’s hidden wine. Brian seated Walter. Queenie, recoiling from the worn chair, waited until a new one was brought, covering it with paper towels before cautiously sitting. The greasy table reflected the light, and Queenie deeply regretted her decision to come.

About ten minutes later, Nash arrived. Brian greeted him, “Grandmaster…”

Nash nodded and joined them.