[Center of Everything]

“The Wrong Table at the Right Restaurant”

Aster House sat near Melrose and Robertson, all smoked mirrors, pale limestone, amber lighting, and indoor olive trees. The menu was coastal Italian with West Hollywood portions, serving handmade pasta, grilled fish, and vegetables arranged more carefully than most people dressed.

The restaurant’s most visible table stood beneath a brass light sculpture beside the front windows. Anyone entering had to see it, and every photograph of the dining room caught it without trying.

Sloane: “That’s my table.” She stopped inside the entrance and lowered her sunglasses to study the woman seated beneath the sculpture.

Hostess: “Good evening, Ms. Foxxx. We have your reservation ready.” The hostess smiled with the calm expression of someone trained to survive difficult people.

Sloane: “You have my reservation ready at a table occupied by Lila Cross and six people pretending not to watch her check her phone.” She slid her sunglasses back into place, although the restaurant was nearly dark.

Tess: “Lila Cross is an Oscar nominee, Sloane.” Tess Armitage, Sloane’s longtime friend and a female celebrity stylist, looked toward the quieter booth the hostess had prepared.

Sloane: “One nomination. Let’s not turn participation into sainthood.” She handed her coat to the attendant without looking at him.

Hostess: “There was a change in tonight’s seating arrangement. We’ve prepared one of our best booths for you, with more privacy.” She motioned toward a curved velvet booth near the rear wall.

Sloane: “Privacy is what restaurants offer people when nobody is interested in seeing them.” She stepped into the dining room, forcing Tess and the hostess to follow.

Tess: “You said you wanted dinner, not a live broadcast.” Tess gave the hostess an apologetic smile that Sloane immediately disliked.

Sloane: “I wanted the table I reserved three weeks ago. The fact that it happens to be the visual center of the room is architectural competence, not vanity.”

Tess: “Take the booth before management seats us in the parking lot.” She started across the dining room, leaving Sloane to follow.

Sloane took the route that carried her directly past Lila’s table. When the photographer raised his camera, she touched a passing server’s elbow as though preventing a collision and held the pose long enough for three flashes to catch her profile.

Sloane: “Careful.” She gave the server a gracious smile, then continued without checking whether the photographer had gotten the angle.

Tess: “You nearly walked into that tray on purpose.” She slid into the booth and placed her phone face down.

Tess: “You haven’t stopped looking at her since we came through the door.” She opened the menu, though her eyes stayed on Sloane.

Sloane: “I’m looking at the room. Lila happens to be blocking most of it with that desperate little dinner party.” Sloane chose the side facing the windows, then shifted until the smoked mirror behind Tess reflected Lila’s table.

Tess: “I had the meeting today.” She folded her hands near the table’s edge and waited for Sloane’s attention.

Tess: “The meeting with Bellamy Wardrobe. The Chicago position.” Tess waited again, long enough for the silence to become deliberate.

Sloane: “Chicago has positions now?” She lowered the menu and smiled as though she had delivered the only worthwhile line in the room.

Tess: “Creative director. Full control of their editorial clients, a larger staff, and my own budget.” She searched Sloane’s face for proof the information had landed.

Sloane: “That sounds exhausting. Get the tuna crudo.” Her phone buzzed against the table, and she picked it up before Tess could answer.

Tess: “I’d have to move, and they want an answer tomorrow.” She let the words sit between them while Sloane scrolled through photographs of Lila’s arrival.

Sloane: “Nobody has to move to Chicago. People lose bets and wake up there.” She raised one hand for the server, then stopped when Lila stood to greet another guest.

The new arrival was a famous musician, drawing two more cameras toward the window. Sloane stood, picked up her handbag, and looked toward the restroom corridor on the opposite side of the restaurant.

Tess: “The restroom is behind you.” She did not bother lowering her voice.

Sloane: “I know where it is. I’m checking whether they moved it for Lila too.”

Sloane crossed the room by way of the window table, passing behind Lila as the musician leaned in for a photograph. She paused to let a server pass, turned toward the cameras, and tucked a strand of honey-blonde hair behind her ear with practiced casualness.

When she returned, Tess had ordered the crudo, charred prawns, and two pasta dishes. Sloane sat, checked three social accounts, and found herself visible in the corner of one photograph, blurred but unmistakable.

Sloane: “There. That’s a much stronger frame.” She placed the phone beside Tess’s hand and enlarged the image until Lila disappeared from the screen.

Tess: “You’re behind a bread basket.” Tess looked at the photograph, then back at Sloane.

Sloane: “The basket creates depth. I’m the only person in that picture who understands how a camera works.”

Tess: “I told them I was interested.” She leaned forward, her voice quiet enough that Sloane finally looked up.

Sloane: “Interested in what?” The question came out clean and immediate, without embarrassment.

Tess stared at her. The server arrived with the crudo, placed it between them, and retreated after sensing the table had become more dangerous than the kitchen.

Tess: “I’ve been talking about Chicago for twenty minutes.” She did not sound angry yet, which made the words land harder.

Sloane: “You mentioned Chicago. Mentioning a city isn’t the same as announcing a life decision.” She reached for the tuna and missed it with the serving fork.

Tess: “I told you the job, the title, the deadline, and that I’d have to move. I also told you I’m scared I’ll take it and fail where everybody can see me.” She pushed the plate away.

Sloane: “You won’t fail.” The answer came quickly, almost reflexively.

Tess: “You don’t know that because you haven’t listened to anything else.” Her anger finally showed in the way she stopped protecting Sloane from it.

Sloane: “I heard enough to understand the situation.” Another flash went off near the windows, and she forced herself not to look.

Tess: “What company offered me the job?” She rested both hands flat against the table.

Sloane: “The Chicago company.” Her mouth tightened as soon as she heard herself.

Tess: “What would I be doing?” She gave Sloane no time to redirect.

Sloane: “You’d be in charge of their clothes.” She heard how empty the answer sounded and reached for her water.

Tess: “Why am I scared?” Her voice dropped low enough that the question belonged only to them.

Sloane opened her mouth, but the answer was nowhere in the restaurant. She looked at Tess, then at the phone where her own blurred face remained enlarged behind the bread basket.

Sloane: “Because Chicago is cold.” She tried to make it sound dry and clever, but the line arrived weak.

Tess: “My mother died there.” She held Sloane’s gaze while the restaurant continued around them.

Sloane did not move. Tess had told her that part too, sometime between the specials and Lila’s photographs, and Sloane could not pretend she had heard it.

Tess: “I said I don’t know whether going back feels like moving forward or walking into the worst year of my life.” She picked up her handbag and slid from the booth.

Sloane: “Tess, sit down.” The command came automatically, polished by years of expecting rooms to rearrange themselves around her.

Tess: “You got exactly what you wanted tonight.” She stood beside the table and looked toward Lila, who was filming a cheerful video for her followers.

Sloane: “I wanted dinner with you.” She said it too late and with too much certainty, as though certainty could repair the evidence.

Tess: “You wanted to be seen having dinner. I was furniture with a reservation.” She placed enough cash beside her untouched plate to cover her share.

Sloane: “That’s dramatic, even for someone considering Chicago.” Her defense arrived before the apology she should have given.

Tess: “Bellamy Wardrobe offered me the creative director position. I’m accepting tomorrow, and I’m leaving in three weeks.” She paused, giving Sloane one final chance to respond to the actual news.

Sloane: “You already decided?” Her eyes sharpened, not with offense, but with the realization that an entire decision had happened beside her without her involvement.

Tess: “I decided while you were crossing the room for a restroom that was behind you.” She turned and walked toward the entrance without looking back.

Sloane remained in the booth as the prawns arrived. The server set them down, noticed the empty seat, and quietly removed Tess’s water glass.

Across the room, Lila lifted her phone and panned from her friends to the crowded restaurant. Sloane saw the lens moving toward her table and straightened by instinct. She touched her hair, angled her chin toward the light, and rested one hand beside the champagne glass. The camera passed over her for less than a second.

Sloane watched Lila’s story appear online and froze the frame where she sat alone beside two untouched dinners. For once, she had made it into the shot exactly as she was.

__________

The camera opened on a private West Hollywood soundstage arranged like an awards-show lounge built for one guest. A white marble platform stood beneath a crystal chandelier, three screens displayed SLOANE FOXXX above THE CENTER OF EVERYTHING, and a mirrored vanity faced a velvet chaise inside the spotlight.

Sloane sat on the chaise in a cream suit and jeweled heels, a crystal headpiece resting over her brunette hair and honey-blonde highlights. The recording light came on, and she immediately raised one hand.

Sloane: “Stop. You’re filming me from the left, and I specifically said three degrees right of center. That catches the cheekbone without making the headpiece look crowded.”

Cameraman: “I’m looking at the monitor, Ms. Foxxx. Honestly, all of your sides are your best side.”

Sloane primped her hair, checked her reflection, and settled back with satisfaction. Sloane: “That’s fair. You may keep your job, but don’t let relief make you careless.”

Cameraman: “Should I start again from the top? The framing is ready whenever you are.”

Sloane: “Obviously. People will remember my first SCW promo for years, and their memory cannot begin with you discovering basic geometry.”

The camera reset and pushed toward the platform. Sloane turned to the lens with a polished smile that suggested someone nearby had already disappointed her.

Sloane: “Sin City Wrestling, congratulations. After years of crowning champions and apparently allowing anyone with boots to wander through the entrance, you have finally reached the moment when all of it becomes relevant. Sloane Foxxx has arrived, so SCW can stop pretending the conversation was complete without me.”

Cameraman: “Should I move closer? I can tighten the shot around your shoulders.”

Sloane: “Naturally. Unlike my position on the card, the camera should understand where the main event belongs.”

She leaned forward as her smile faded. The gold lettering framed her shoulders while she looked into the lens like she had received an insulting bill.

Sloane: “I have been informed that my debut is opening the show. Opening, as in people are still finding their seats and ordering drinks before I have even finished saving the broadcast. Usually the opener belongs to two desperate people management wants out of the way early. You do not put the reason people bought a ticket first unless you are worried the rest of the show cannot hold their attention, and that explanation makes perfect sense.”

Cameraman: “Maybe they wanted to start strong. You could look at it as a compliment.”

Sloane gave him an approving nod. Sloane: “That is the first intelligent thing you’ve said. Everything afterward needs the advantage of having already witnessed excellence.”

She adjusted a jeweled pin near her temple. On the screens behind her, the SCW logo was replaced by JASOLYN HAVOC.

Sloane: “Then there is Jasolyn Havoc, which sounds less like a wrestler and more like a female truck driver who wears dirty jeans and too much plaid. I picture her leaning against an eighteen-wheeler, calling everybody ‘darlin’,’ and explaining that the stain on her sleeve is engine grease as though anybody asked.”

Sloane: “Havoc is branding for people without personalities. You choose a loud word, scowl for the camera, and hope nobody notices there is nothing underneath it. Chaos, destruction, mayhem, havoc. They are costumes for women who cannot hold attention once the bell stops ringing.”

Cameraman: “Have you watched any of her matches? I assume SCW sent you footage.”

Sloane turned toward him, offended by the question. Sloane: “I have watched enough. Jasolyn moves like someone who thinks force excuses poor planning, and she carries herself like being unpleasant is the same thing as being dangerous.”

Sloane: “Dangerous is knowing which wrist to trap before your opponent realizes she has lost the arm. Dangerous is feeling someone shift her weight and knowing which knee she will protect. Dangerous is folding her into a cradle while she is still congratulating herself.”

She rose and stepped into the center of the marble platform beneath the strongest light. The camera followed automatically, keeping her name directly above her.

Sloane: “I am a trained technical wrestler, Jasolyn. I choose a target, take it apart, and by the time you understand what I am doing, your shoulder is on the mat or your hand is reaching for the ropes.”

Sloane: “Of course, I might use those ropes first. I might pull the tights, catch some hair, rake an eye, or introduce your face to something the referee missed. Winning looks much better than moral purity.”

Cameraman: “You probably shouldn’t say that where the officials can hear it. They may watch you more closely.”

Sloane: “The officials should be grateful for advance notice. Whether they are competent enough to stop me is their problem.”

She stepped closer until her face filled most of the frame. Behind her, Jasolyn’s name shrank toward the edge while Sloane’s expanded across the center.

Sloane: “What truly offends me is that somewhere on this show, people have been placed into a Unification Qualifier. That sounds important, dramatic, and appropriately complicated. It sounds like a match where everyone argues about championships and who deserves to shape the future, so it was clearly designed for me.”

“Instead, management handed me Jasolyn Havoc like a welcome basket nobody checked before delivery. I should be deciding which championship becomes more valuable by standing near it, not proving some random nobody cannot survive inside my orbit.”

Cameraman: “Maybe beating her gets you into that conversation. A strong debut could put you in the next qualifier.”

Sloane: “I am already in that conversation. Every champion should ask what Sloane Foxxx thinks of them, every contender should check whether I noticed their match, and every decision management makes should begin with one question: where does Sloane belong?”

Her right hand closed around her left wrist, mimicking The Final Word. The polished smile returned, though there was no warmth behind it.

Sloane: “Jasolyn, I can hit The Centerpiece and leave you staring at the lights before the audience learns how to spell your name. I can trap you in The Final Word and make you surrender while I explain which mistake brought you there. You are not the story. You are the first example.”

“After I beat you, the opener will be the only part of the show anyone remembers. The qualifiers can qualify, the champions can parade around, and the so-called main event can struggle to follow me. They will all be performing in the aftermath of Sloane Foxxx.”

The cameraman shifted to keep her centered. Sloane caught the adjustment in the monitor, gave him an approving nod, and raised her chin.

Sloane: “At my SCW debut, I will strip away the noise, the plaid, the cheap name, and every excuse Jasolyn Havoc brought with her. Then I will leave her in the middle of that ring and make certain nobody mistakes her for anything more than the woman unfortunate enough to stand across from me first.”

Sloane held the lens for a beat, allowing the final declaration to belong entirely to her.

Sloane: “Watch closely, Jasolyn. I am going to show you why I am the Center of Everything.”