The fluorescent light hums, a jagged electric sound that matches the hollow ache in Indigo’s chest. Thousands of steel cradles sit empty, their skeletal shadows stretching across the cellar floor. The six-figure vertical of Screaming Eagle is gone. The 1945 Mouton Rothschild, the soul of her list, is an echoing void on the lower rack.
Everything is drained. Not just the wine, but the promise of tomorrow’s VIP gala. Indigo runs a thumb over a thin pale scar on her index finger, her breath hitching in the chilled air. Her sommelier didn't just quit; he gutted the building on his way out. He didn't do this alone.
She leans against a cool concrete pillar, the white linen of her chef’s jacket stark against the grey. The silence of the subterranean vault is heavy, smelling only of damp stone and ozone instead of oak and velvet. Then, the silence breaks. Above, the heavy security door thuds shut. Footsteps echo down the concrete stairs, slowing as they reach the cellar door.
