Le Jardin, known far and wide as the city’s most prestigious dining spot, buzzed with activity. The elegant courtyard was filled with the gentle sounds of conversation, punctuated by the faint clink-clink of expensive silverware meeting fine china.
As twilight settled, crystal stemware caught the last rays of light, shimmering on the tables. A rich scent, a mix of savory roasted lamb and earthy truffle butter, hung in the air. Tucked away at a corner table, however, sat Thomas Reed, completely by himself. He looked to be in his early thirties, dressed impeccably in a tailored suit, but his expression was far off, carrying the unmistakable air of someone who had everything and was impressed by none of it.
An array of gourmet dishes was spread out before him, all getting cold. There were perfectly seared scallops, a basket of freshly baked rolls, and a glass of Chardonnay that mirrored the candle’s golden flame. By all accounts, he was a man who wanted for nothing; he possessed wealth, held power, and wielded significant influence.
Yet, on this particular evening, staring blankly at a never-ending feed of emails on his phone, he was completely numb. Just beyond the ornate, wrought-iron gates of Le Jardin, a stark contrast existed. A little girl named Layla was standing, her small body shaking from the cold. She couldn’t have been more than seven.
She was swallowed by a tattered dress that was far too large for her thin frame. Her small, bare feet were coated in grime from the streets. A painful knot of hunger twisted in her stomach, making it growl, but she pushed the feeling aside. For the better part of an hour, she had been observing the well-dressed patrons, clinging to the slim hope that one of them might offer her their scraps on the way out.
It was as if she didn’t exist; not a single person glanced in her direction. Just then, a waiter emerged, his tray laden with half-finished meals. He stopped only to dump the entire contents into a trash bin located near the alley. Seeing her chance, Layla cautiously edged closer.
“Stop right there, girl!” the waiter snapped, his voice sharp. He waved his hand at her, shooing her off as if she were a stray dog. “Don’t you even think about touching that. We don’t allow filthy street kids around here.”
Layla flinched, the harsh words stinging, and she quickly ducked back behind the safety of a nearby column. Tears welled in her exhausted eyes, blurring her vision. But the gnawing hunger inside her was a more powerful force than her fear. Peeking through the open patio doors, her gaze landed on a man in a navy suit. He was all alone at a table in the corner. And right in front of him sat plates of food, completely untouched: bread rolls, pieces of roasted chicken, and even a small chocolate tart…
