The Son-in-Law Apocalypse Revenge

003

"A bulk order, sir?" Celeste asked. Her voice hitched, and the notepad in her hand trembled slightly. She had worked at Lumière for three years, and the most she’d ever seen anyone order was a tasting menu for a wedding party of twenty.

Desmond didn't look up from his phone. His fingers swiped across a list he had prepared earlier that morning—a survivalist’s dream menu, optimized for caloric density and long-term storage in his Void Store.

"Yes. I need to place a substantial takeaway order," Desmond said. He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, radiating a calm that seemed to suck the air out of the surrounding tables. "Let’s start with the Wagyu beef course. I’ll need one thousand portions of that."

Vanessa, who had been halfway through a scathing retort about his "imaginary money," froze. Her face flushed a deep, embarrassed crimson as she realized the people at the neighboring table—a group of corporate executives—had stopped their conversation to stare.

"What are you doing, Desmond?" she hissed, leaning so far across the table that her hair nearly dipped into her water glass. "Stop this right now. You’re making a scene. It’s not funny."

Desmond ignored her. To him, she was just background noise, as insignificant as the hum of the air conditioner.

"Moving on," he continued methodically, his voice carrying clearly in the now-quiet room. "I’ll need one thousand portions of the lobster thermidor. One thousand of the truffle risotto. One thousand of the duck confit."

Celeste’s pen stopped moving. She stared at him, her mouth hanging open. "Sir, I... I don't think I can…”

"I’m not finished," Desmond said, his tone firm but not unkind. "Add one thousand portions of the lamb rack, one thousand of the Atlantic salmon, and two thousand portions of the artisan bread selection. Oh, and one thousand Caesar salads—dressing on the side for preservation. Let's finish it off with one thousand portions of the roasted vegetable medley."

The restaurant went completely silent. The soft violin music in the background suddenly felt absurdly loud. Every head in the room was turned toward their table. Socialites held their forks mid-air; businessmen forgot their deals.

 The "factory worker" was currently ordering enough food to feed a small army for a month.

Vanessa reached out, grabbing his forearm and trying to pull him down closer to the table, her eyes darting around the room in a panic. "Desmond, look at me! You’re hurt, I get it. 

The divorce has made you snap, but this isn't the way to handle it. You’re acting like a madman! There is no way you can afford this, and I am not going to sit here while you humiliate me in front of these people!"

She wasn't worried about his mental health. 

He could see it in the way she checked the reactions of the wealthy patrons nearby. She was terrified that his "insanity" would rub off on her reputation before she could officially debut as Thaddeus Crane’s woman.

Desmond pulled his arm away from her grip with a slow, deliberate movement. "You should worry about yourself, Vanessa," he said. His voice was cold, stripped of any of the warmth he had once wasted on her. "We were together for years, and you didn't even know me. You don't know what I can afford."

"I know you make forty dollars an hour!" she shrieked, her voice cracking. "Stop this! I am ordering you to stop this right now!"

Desmond looked her dead in the eye. A small, dark smile touched his lips. "The last time I remembered, we were divorced already. You signed the papers, remember? You don't get to order me to do anything."

Vanessa opened her mouth, but no words came out. The finality in his tone was like a physical wall.

"Sir," Celeste stammered, backing away from the table. "Let me... let me get the manager immediately. And the owner. I can't process this."

She practically ran toward the back of the restaurant.

A few moments later, Laurent Beaumont, the distinguished manager known for his legendary impatience with "low-class" patrons, appeared. He wasn't alone. Beside him was Simone Archambault, the owner of Lumière—a formidable woman in a sharp silk suit who rarely left her private office.

Laurent’s French accent was thick with irritation as he approached. "Mr. Kane, I understand there has been some... confusion about your order? My server says you are asking for five thousand meals?"

"No confusion, Laurent," Desmond said, not even blinking at the manager’s intimidating glare. "I’d like five thousand individual meal portions, vacuum-sealed for transport and storage. I believe your kitchen is more than capable of handling it if I pay the right premium."

By now, Thaddeus Crane had risen from his table across the room. He walked over, a glass of expensive scotch in his hand, a smug smirk plastered on his face. He wanted to be front and center for the moment the security guards threw Desmond out onto the pavement.

"Still playing the big man, Desmond?" Thaddeus chuckled, looking at Simone. 

"Madame Archambault, you’ll have to excuse him. He’s a bit distraught. My soon-to-be-wife just left him, and I think the reality has finally broken his brain."

Simone Archambault didn't look at Thaddeus. She was looking at Desmond, her sharp eyes calculating. She was a businesswoman first.

 "Mr. Kane, do you realize what you are asking? Five thousand premium portions, prepared to your specific storage requirements... this would total approximately $1.2 million before tax and packaging fees."

The sound of a glass shattering echoed through the restaurant like a gunshot.

Vanessa’s wine glass had slipped from her numb fingers, the red liquid splashing across the white marble floor like a bloodstain. She didn't even notice. Her eyes were fixed on the owner.

"$1.2 million?" she whispered, the number sounding like an impossibility.

Thaddeus froze mid-step, his smirk faltering. Even for a man of his wealth, dropping over a million dollars on a single takeaway order at a restaurant was a move of pure, arrogant power.

"I understand the amount," Desmond said calmly. He reached for his phone. "I can provide a fifty percent deposit right now to get the kitchen started."

Simone leaned in, her voice professional but laced with a new level of scrutiny. "For verification purposes, may I confirm your ability to cover such an expenditure? We cannot tie up our entire supply chain on a whim."

Desmond turned his phone screen toward her.

Earlier that morning, the news had broken. AegisShield Biotech had successfully patented a new form of atmospheric filtration—the very tech that would become the backbone of the "Safe Zones" during the Glacial Apocalypse. The stock had exploded overnight.

His $2,400 investment had skyrocketed to $340,000. But that was only half of it. The cryptocurrency positions he had taken—betting on the collapse of traditional banking protocols—had added another $280,000 in a matter of hours.

The balance on the screen read: ‘$2 million.’.

And the numbers were ticking upward in real-time, pulsing with every refresh.

The manager, Laurent, froze. He looked at the screen, then at Desmond’s calm face, then back at the screen. The irritation in his posture vanished instantly. His shoulders dropped into a slight, respectful bow, and his face shifted into a mask of pure, high-end service.

"My apologies, Mr. Kane," Laurent said, his voice now smooth as silk. "I didn't realize we were dealing with a client of your... caliber. 

This is indeed a significant order, and it deserves a more private setting to discuss the logistics."

He gestured toward the back of the room. 

"Please, if you would follow me to the VIP section? We have a private lounge where we can finalize the contract over a bottle of our finest vintage—on the house, of course."

Vanessa’s eyes burned with a sudden, intense greed. The disgust she had felt for Desmond only minutes ago evaporated, replaced by a desperate need to understand how the "mule" had suddenly become a millionaire.

"Desmond!" she said, her voice high and forcedly sweet. She stepped forward, trying to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "I... I should come along. We still need to talk about the details of the settlement, and—"

Desmond stopped. He turned to her, his gaze so cold and dark that she actually took a step back.

"Do I know you?" he muttered.

The words hit her like a physical blow. Vanessa stood paralyzed as a wave of laughter erupted from the nearby tables. The executives who had been watching the drama let out mocking chuckles, enjoying the sight of the gold-digger getting shut out in the cold.

Embarrassment burned through Vanessa’s throat, turning her skin a blotchy, ugly red. She looked at Thaddeus for help, but he was staring at Desmond’s back with a mixture of shock and fury, his own "prince" status suddenly feeling very small.