During the next ten minutes, Jules found herself being introduced to several ritzy-looking people who drifted toward and then away from Vivian as she held court, letting people come to her. This shindig wasn’t her doing, but somehow she still managed to be the center of attention.

Everyone here knew her. Few liked her. Most of them feared her. That was obvious right away.

Then it was time to be seated for the actual food. Jules scanned the tables and saw tiny nameplates at each place. Rats—she hadn’t been able to look around before Vivian had pulled her aside. Everybody else had already had time to find out where they were sitting.

Jules didn’t want to be the only one wandering around like an idiot, so she dared to ask Vivian, “Sorry, but do you know where I’m supposed to sit? I haven’t had a chance to—”

“We’re at the center table.” Vivian gestured, then proceeded like a queen to the center table with Jules trailing in her wake.

It wasn’t until catching other people watching her with raised eyebrows that Jules realized how unusual this had to look. The center table was prime real estate at any function and usually occupied only by the people in charge and their most important guests. People like Jules, if they were lucky enough to get invited at all, always sat at the tables on the outermost periphery. But there it was, a tiny card made of embossed cream paper with Jules’s name in beautiful calligraphy, right next to Vivian’s.

She lowered herself into her seat, feeling as if everybody in the room were watching her. Which they weren’t. Of course they weren’t.

Vivian was already chatting with the man seated at her left, and the woman on Jules’s right was talking to the person on her other side, so Jules was left to sit mutely and try not to fidget. Fortunately, at that moment, waiters emerged carrying trays of salad with scallops and prawns. Jules had eaten a decent breakfast a few hours ago on the flight—first class food was a world apart from coach—but her mouth still watered, and she had to force herself to eat sparingly. It would look bad for Vivian Carlisle’s assistant to gobble her food like a starving animal.

She glanced at Vivian, who appeared to have the same problem. Hunger pangs again, and not a pizza in sight. Jules bit her lip and looked back down at her salad; if Vivian caught her smirking, she’d be more likely to slap Jules’s cheek than air-kiss it.

Jules blushed again. That had been so weird. So unexpected. Nobody at Du Jour would ever believe it. Why were her fingertips tingling again?