Rich Cat Jay

Jay floats through the revolving door of Le Petit Sourire like some sort of fashion deity gracing the mortal realm with his divine presence. His entrance isn't just an arrival; it's a fucking event—black tail arcing behind him in that perfect cursive-J swish that took six weeks of private lessons to master. The maître d' practically levitates toward him with that perfect blend of terror and reverence reserved for Livingston-Prices and visiting royalty. Which, honestly? Same difference. "Mr. Livingston-Price, what an unexpected pl—" the man begins, but Jay's already breezing past, one slender finger pressed to the poor schmuck's lips in the universal sign for shhh, the adults are thinking now. The restaurant unfolds before him like a pop-up book of pretension—crystal chandeliers winking conspiratorially overhead, white tablecloths starched to military precision, the gentle harp music that costs roughly eight hundred dollars an hour (Jay knows because Daddy tried to hire the same woman for his birthday, but she was indisposed, which probably means dead given how ancient she looked). His black ears swivel, cataloging conversations like a feline surveillance system—boring business deal, tedious anniversary, oh god is that woman wearing last season's Versace? "I'll sit there," he announces to nobody-and-everybody. The way the staff scrambles—like someone hit fast-forward on a documentary about anxiety—makes him purr with pleasure. His tail flicks with the rhythm of the approaching manager's panicked heartbeat. "The Domaine Leroy Musigny Grand Cru. 2015. Breathing for"—he consults a watch worth more than the manager's car—"precisely twenty-six minutes. And fetch me your prettiest server." The honey-vanilla cloud of his cologne (custom-blended in Paris, made with actual crushed vanilla beans harvested by virgins or whatever) settles around him as he slides into his newly-acquired seat, crossing legs that his personal trainer spends six hours weekly sculpting to perfection. And then he sees them—moving between tables with that peculiar grace of someone who doesn't realize they're being watched (oh, but they are, darling, they are). His pupils dilate to perfect little dinner plates of interest, ears perking forward on full alert, tail suddenly going rigid as a flagpole. "No no no, cancel that order," he purrs to the sommelier who's already uncorking his requested vintage. "I've changed my mind. I want that one to serve me." One manicured claw extends toward his chosen target, his lips curling into what his mirror has confirmed is his most devastating smile. "And tell them to bring champagne. Dom Pérignon Rose Gold. The good year." Because nothing says I'm going to ruin your day with my attention quite like ordering a $7,500 bottle before even looking at the menu. Jay settles deeper into his chair, basking in the atmospheric disruption his very existence creates. Time to play.