The Throne at Table One
L’Orangerie was never merely a restaurant. In the fevered imagination of Los Angeles, it was a temple, a sanctuary where the communion wafer was a truffle shaving and the wine flowed like liquid gold. It was a theater of culinary excellence situated in the pulsing heart of the city, a place where crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling like frozen waterfalls, and the air itself seemed thick—saturated with the scents of brown butter, aged wine, and the desperate, cloying ambition of Hollywood’s elite.
I, Michael Vance, sat at Table One.
To the uninitiated, Table One was simply a spot near the window. But to the power brokers who frequented this establishment, it was the throne. It offered a sweeping view of the sprawling city lights below, a shimmering grid of dreams and desperation.
Tonight, however, the occupant of the throne was an anomaly.
The dining room was a sea of designer tuxedos, silk lapels, and couture gowns that cost more than most people’s annual salary. Amidst this ocean of black-tie elegance, I was a stark contrast. I wore a faded gray t-shirt that had thinned at the collar, a pair of comfortable denim jeans, and sneakers that showed the wear of actual use.
To the casual observer, I looked like someone who had wandered into the wrong building on their way to a coffee shop. I looked like a mistake.
In reality, I was the architect of everything they saw.
I am the Founder and Chairman of Vance Hospitality Group, the parent entity that owned L’Orangerie and forty-two other high-end establishments scattered across three continents. I wasn’t just a patron; I was the foundation, the vision, and the final word. I was here incognito, booked under the unremarkable alias “Mr. Gray,” for a purpose that went beyond simply eating dinner. I was here to evaluate the new seasonal menu, yes, but more importantly, I was here to take the temperature of the operation.
I took a sip of water, my eyes scanning the flow of the room. The aesthetics were flawless. The service appeared seamless; the waiters moved with practiced efficiency. The lighting was calibrated to flatter even the most camera-worn faces.
But even from the first moments of sitting down, I could sense it. There was something wrong at the heart of this operation. It wasn’t in the kitchen—not yet—but in the front of house.
The problem had a name: Philippe Dubois.
Philippe, the General Manager, was a man who had tragically confused snobbery with sophistication. He was almost a caricature, possessing slicked-back hair that gleamed under the chandeliers and a suit cut with aggressive precision. He moved through the dining room not like a host welcoming guests, but like a predator evaluating prey, his eyes constantly scanning for status symbols. He fawned over luxury watches and designer handbags while dismissing anyone whose appearance didn’t scream wealth.
He had already walked past my table three times. Each time, his expression registered barely concealed disdain, as if I were a stain that had somehow gotten past security.
“Enjoying the water… sir?” he had asked ten minutes earlier, the word ‘sir’ delivered like an insult. “Do try not to disturb our other guests. We have important people dining tonight.”
I had ignored him, keeping my attention on the menu. I was more interested in evaluating the food than engaging with his fragile ego. But the uneasy détente I was maintaining was about to shatter completely.
Outside, the muffled sound of car doors slamming was followed by the distinctive flash of paparazzi cameras penetrating the heavy curtains. The oak doors at the entrance swung open with dramatic flair, and a wave of noise invaded the hushed sanctuary.
It was Bella Thorne—the actress of the moment, beautiful, loud, and spectacularly lacking in self-awareness. She swept in surrounded by an entourage of assistants carrying her purse, her small dog, and apparently the weight of her considerable ego.
She stopped in the center of the entrance, pulling down oversized sunglasses to survey the room. Her eyes scanned past empty tables near the bar and landed directly on me.
Or rather, on my table.
“Philippe!” she snapped, the sound sharp as breaking glass. She snapped her fingers—a gesture I despise more than anything in the service industry. “I want that table. The view. Now.”
The air in the restaurant seemed to crystallize. Philippe turned, his eyes widening, clearly caught between competing interests.
But then he looked at me, and I saw the calculation form in his eyes—a decision that would cost him everything.
The Spilled Water
Philippe materialized at the actress’s side instantly, his posture bending into something resembling a bow.
“Miss Thorne! What an absolute honor,” he said, his voice dripping with obvious flattery. “Of course, we will accommodate you. Anything for our most distinguished guests. However… we are fully booked this evening.”
“I don’t care about your booking system,” Bella said, her voice carrying easily over the soft background music. She pointed a manicured nail, painted crimson, directly at my face. “Get that guy out of there. I’m hungry, and I want the city view.”
Philippe looked at her, then turned his gaze toward me. I saw the calculation happening in real time. On one side stood a famous actress who would bring press coverage, social media posts, and prestige to the venue. On the other sat a quiet nobody in a t-shirt, nursing a glass of water, likely to order modestly and tip poorly.
For someone of Philippe’s limited character, the choice was obvious.
He straightened his jacket and approached my table. There was no polite request, no diplomatic offer of a complimentary drink at the bar to smooth things over. He arrived with the energy of someone delivering an eviction notice.
“Sir,” Philippe said, his voice deliberately loud enough to be heard at surrounding tables. “We require this table for a VIP guest. An actual patron of significance. You will need to move. Immediately.”
He gestured vaguely toward the back of the restaurant. “There is seating available near the kitchen. It would be more… appropriate to your… presentation.”
I looked up calmly, my hands resting on the white linen. “I reserved this table two weeks ago, Philippe. Under the name Gray. I’m in the middle of my meal service.”
“You haven’t even ordered food,” he scoffed, looking down at me with obvious contempt.
“I’m waiting for the seasonal consommé,” I replied, keeping my voice even. “And I’m not moving.”
The refusal hung in the air. Philippe’s face flushed an angry red. He clearly wasn’t accustomed to resistance from people he’d deemed beneath him.
Bella approached, her arms crossed, the entourage hovering behind her like attendants. “Is there a problem here? Why is he still sitting there?”
Philippe, desperate to impress his celebrity guest and maintain his authority, decided to escalate. He reached for my water glass.
“I think you’re finished here,” he said with a sneer. “We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone, especially those who disrupt the atmosphere.”
With a deliberate motion, he swept his hand across the table.
It wasn’t an accident. It was calculated aggression. The glass tipped.
Ice-cold water splashed across my chest, soaking through the gray cotton of my t-shirt and dripping onto my jeans. The crystal goblet hit the floor with a sound like a gunshot, shattering into countless glittering fragments.
The room gasped collectively. A wave of shocked silence swept through the dining hall.
Philippe pulled a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket. But instead of offering it to me or apologizing, he bent down and dabbed at a drop of water on the table’s edge.
“How unfortunate,” he said, leaning in close so only I could hear the venom in his voice. “But look at what you’ve caused. You’re disrupting the experience for everyone. This table is for celebrities, for people who matter. Not for someone in a dirty t-shirt. Leave now, before I have security remove you.”
I sat there, water dripping from my shirt. Bella laughed—a harsh, grating sound that carried across the room.
“Good work, Philippe,” she said. “He probably smells like wet laundry now anyway. Go on, leave.”
I didn’t move. I didn’t react. I just felt the cold water against my skin and the absolute clarity of what needed to happen next.
The Message
I sat there for a long moment, allowing the sensation of the water to ground me. I didn’t feel embarrassed. I didn’t feel diminished. I felt a burning, crystalline clarity.
This wasn’t just poor service. This wasn’t just rudeness. This was a fundamental violation of everything Vance Hospitality Group stood for. My father had built this company on a single principle: respect. Respect for the craft, respect for the ingredients, and above all, respect for every guest who walked through the door—regardless of their appearance or status.
Philippe hadn’t just insulted a customer; he had violated the core values of my legacy.
I picked up a dry napkin and calmly dabbed my chest. Then, deliberately, I stood up.
I looked Philippe directly in the eye. He was smirking, his chest inflated with victory. He thought he had successfully defended his territory against an intruder. He had no idea he had just destroyed his entire career.
“You judge people by their clothes, Philippe,” I said softly. My voice was quiet, but in the absolute silence of the room, it carried like thunder. “That’s a very costly mistake.”
I reached into my damp pocket and pulled out my phone. It was sleek and black—the only thing on my person that hinted at my actual position.
“What are you going to do?” Philippe mocked, glancing at Bella for approval. “Leave a bad review online? Call someone to complain?”
“Something like that,” I said.
I unlocked the screen. My thumb moved to the messaging app. I have a dedicated group chat reserved only for the most critical operational directives. It’s labeled: “VANCE GROUP – EXECUTIVE BOARD.”
I typed a brief message. I didn’t need elaborate explanation. My Board understood that when I used this channel, it was the voice of absolute authority speaking.
Effective immediately: Terminate General Manager Philippe Dubois. Close LA location for complete personnel restructuring. Code Black.
I hit Send.
The message bubble turned blue. Delivered.
I looked up at Philippe. The smirk was still plastered on his face, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes now. Perhaps he sensed something shifting.
“I’ll leave,” I said, sliding the phone back into my pocket. “But I’m afraid no one is going to be serving you tonight, Philippe. Or your guest.”
“You’re delusional,” Bella said, finally sitting down in what had been my chair. “Philippe, someone needs to clean this mess and bring me a menu. I’m starving.”
Philippe snapped his fingers at a server. “Clean this immediately! And bring the wine list!”
But the server didn’t move. Because at that exact moment, a sound tore through the restaurant—a sound that diners should never hear.
The Kitchen Goes Dark
Thirty seconds.
That’s how long it took for the digital command to travel from my phone to our headquarters in New York and bounce back to the dedicated tablet mounted in the L’Orangerie kitchen.
A loud, jarring alarm sounded from the back of house. It wasn’t the fire alarm. It was a specific tone known only to senior staff. The Emergency Protocol Alert.
Philippe frowned, his hand instinctively going to his pocket as his company phone began vibrating. He ignored it. “What is that noise?” he demanded, looking toward the kitchen doors with irritation. “Someone silence that!”
The double doors swung open.
But it wasn’t a waiter with appetizers. It wasn’t a sommelier with wine.
It was Gordon Miller.
Gordon was my Executive Head Chef. I had recruited him from a struggling restaurant in Paris three years ago, recognizing genius that was being wasted. He was a imposing figure—six foot five, with forearms scarred by years of oven burns and a temper that was legendary in professional kitchens. But beneath the gruff exterior, he possessed fierce, unwavering loyalty to the person who had given him creative freedom: me.
Gordon wasn’t carrying a tray. He was untying his apron.
He pulled the white fabric from his waist and dropped it deliberately onto the floor.
Behind him came the sous-chefs, the line cooks, the pastry team, and even the dishwashers. A silent procession in white, marching out of their stainless-steel domain. The smell of cooking food—searing steaks, reducing sauces—suddenly stopped, replaced by the sterile scent of a kitchen going cold.
The dining room fell into stunned, terrified silence. Guests watched, forks suspended halfway to their mouths.
“Gordon!” Philippe shouted, panic finally cracking his composure. He took a step toward the chef. “What are you doing? Have you lost your mind? Get back in there! Miss Thorne needs her meal! We have a full dining room!”
Gordon ignored him completely. He walked past the sputtering manager and the confused actress with the momentum of someone on a mission.
He stopped directly in front of me.
The room watched in disbelief as this imposing, intimidating chef—a man who had once removed a food critic from the premises for asking for ketchup—bowed his head in genuine, unironic respect.
“Mr. Vance,” Gordon said. His voice was a deep baritone that filled the quiet room. “We received the Code Black from headquarters. The stoves are off. The gas is shut down. The staff is clocked out.”
He turned his head slowly, looking at Philippe with absolute, cold contempt. “We work for Michael Vance. We don’t work for people who treat our owner like trash. No one is cooking for that actress tonight. Not a single dish moves until you give the word.”
Philippe froze. The color drained from his face so rapidly it looked like gravity had taken hold of it. He looked at Gordon. He looked at the silent line of cooks behind him.
Then, slowly, horrifyingly, his eyes turned to me.
He looked at my wet t-shirt. He looked at the shattered glass on the floor. And the realization hit him like a physical blow.
“Owner?” Philippe whispered. The word came out strangled. He looked like he might be sick.
Bella’s jaw dropped, her sunglasses sliding down her nose. “You… you own this place?”
I smiled. It wasn’t a warm smile.
The Empty Kingdom
The silence in the room was suffocating, heavy with the sudden reversal of power. I looked at Philippe. The arrogance that had defined his demeanor minutes ago was completely gone, replaced by visible terror.
He understood now. He understood this wasn’t just about losing a job. In the hospitality industry, being terminated by Michael Vance via a Code Black was career annihilation. It was a permanent mark. He would be fortunate to manage a food truck after this.
“You were right about one thing, Philippe,” I said, my voice calm, carrying to every corner of the silent room. “Table One is not for nobodies. It’s for people who understand the true meaning of service.”
I stepped closer to him, careful to avoid the glass shards beneath my feet.
“But unfortunately,” I continued, “you just turned a premier establishment into nothing.”
I turned away from him, addressing the room of stunned diners. Faces that usually looked bored or entitled now looked captivated, witnessing drama far better than any movie they’d paid to see.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I announced. “I apologize for the disruption to your evening. Your meals tonight are complimentary—what you’ve received of them. But L’Orangerie is now closed. Effective immediately.”
A wave of shocked murmurs rippled through the crowd.
“Please,” I added, “take your time finishing your wine. But the kitchen is dark.”
I turned to Gordon and the staff standing in formation behind me. They looked proud. They looked ready.
“Gordon,” I said. “There’s a steakhouse across the street. The Iron Grill. It’s not one of ours. The décor is dated and the lighting is harsh. But the food is honest and the beer is cold.”
I paused, looking at the line cooks who worked exhausting hours to make this place function.
“Dinner is on me tonight for the entire team. Open bar. Shall we?”
“Yes, Chef!” the staff responded in unison. It was a kitchen habit, a reflex of acknowledging authority, but tonight it sounded like a declaration.
I led the way toward the exit. The sea of designer suits parted for me. As I walked past Bella Thorne, I paused. She was still standing there, hungry, furious, and clutching her purse defensively. She looked at me, then at the empty table, then back at me, clearly unsure whether to protest or apologize.
“There’s a taco place two blocks down,” I suggested helpfully. “The al pastor is excellent. And they don’t have a dress code.”
Her mouth opened and closed, but no sound emerged.
We walked out into the cool Los Angeles night, the air fresh and free of pretension. Behind us, we left Philippe alone in the center of the magnificent, empty dining room.
The lights were still on. The music was still playing softly. The crystal still sparkled. But the soul of the place was gone. It had walked out the door with the man in the wet t-shirt.
Philippe stood amidst the velvet and gold, a ruler of a dead kingdom. He realized too late that clothing doesn’t define worth, but character defines everything. He had wanted to serve the famous. Now he would be infamous—as the man who destroyed L’Orangerie in five minutes.
But the night wasn’t finished. As we crossed the street, I saw the flashing lights of media vans arriving, and I knew Philippe’s nightmare was only beginning.
The Honest Meal
The steakhouse across the street was loud and unpretentious. It smelled of charcoal and grilled onions, a stark contrast to the refined aromas of L’Orangerie. And it was perfect.
We claimed the entire back section. I sat at a long wooden table between Gordon and a dishwasher named Maria. There were no elegant tablecloths here, just butcher paper and crayons for children. I was still wearing my damp t-shirt, now drying and stiff, but nobody cared.
Gordon raised a pint of beer. “To the boss,” he declared loudly.
“To the boss!” the staff shouted, clinking glasses with enthusiasm that shook the walls.
I took a sip of the inexpensive lager. It tasted better than any vintage wine I had ever opened.
My phone buzzed. A notification from the press. The story had already broken. One headline read: “VANCE GROUP CEO SHUTS DOWN LA HOTSPOT AFTER MANAGER INSULTS HIM. BELLA THORNE LEFT WITHOUT DINNER.”
I dismissed the notification.
“What happens to the space, Michael?” Gordon asked quietly, cutting into a ribeye. “It’s prime real estate.”
“We renovate completely,” I said, dipping a french fry into ketchup. “Remove the crystal. Replace the velvet. We open something new. Something with no dress code. No impossible reservations. Just excellent food.”
“And Philippe?”
I looked out the window. Across the street, I could see the darkened silhouette of L’Orangerie. I could see a solitary figure standing in the window, staring out at us.
“Philippe is a lesson,” I said. “He’s a reminder that hospitality isn’t about expensive furnishings. It’s about how you treat every person who walks through the door.”
I turned back to the table, to the laughter of the cooks and the sound of genuine celebration. This was my company. These were my people.
“Eat well, Gordon,” I said, smiling. “We have considerable work ahead of us tomorrow.”
The business would rebuild. But tonight, we celebrated justice, and it was the most satisfying meal I had experienced in years.
The Aftermath
The following morning, my phone was flooded with messages. The story had gone viral overnight. Video footage from guests’ phones showed the dramatic kitchen walkout. Social media was ablaze with commentary—some supporting my decision, others questioning whether I’d overreacted.
I didn’t care about the court of public opinion. I cared about the principles that had built Vance Hospitality Group from a single restaurant into a global operation.
By noon, I had received three calls from Philippe’s attorney, all of which I forwarded to our legal department. He was threatening lawsuits for wrongful termination, claiming he’d been following standard protocols for managing difficult customers.
Our lawyers had a field day with that argument. We had comprehensive documentation of Philippe’s pattern of discriminatory behavior—complaints from other guests who didn’t meet his arbitrary standards of appearance, reports from staff about his abusive management style, even security footage showing him treating certain patrons with obvious disdain while fawning over others.
The wrongful termination suit died before it was even officially filed.
Bella Thorne’s publicist reached out, attempting damage control. Could we arrange a meeting? Perhaps Ms. Thorne could issue a statement supporting the restaurant? Maybe we could discuss her hosting an event at one of our other locations?
I declined all of it. I wasn’t interested in publicity stunts or performative apologies. The incident had revealed character—both hers and Philippe’s—and I had no interest in pretending otherwise.
The Redesign
Three months later, the space that had housed L’Orangerie reopened under a new name: Miller’s Table.
The crystal chandeliers were gone, replaced by warm industrial lighting. The velvet was replaced with comfortable leather booths. The intimidating wine list was replaced with craft beers and accessible wines. The dress code was simple: wear whatever makes you comfortable.
Gordon was now Chef and Partner, owning twenty percent of the new venture. The menu featured elevated comfort food—nothing precious, nothing designed to intimidate. Just exceptional ingredients prepared with skill and served with genuine warmth.
Table One still existed, but it wasn’t reserved for celebrities or power brokers. It was available on a first-come, first-served basis, just like every other table in the restaurant.
On opening night, I sat at Table One again. This time I wasn’t testing the staff or evaluating protocols. I was simply enjoying a meal cooked by someone I trusted, surrounded by people who understood that hospitality is about service, not servitude.
A young couple sat at the table next to mine. They were dressed casually—jeans and sweaters—clearly on a budget but splurging for a special occasion. I overheard them nervously discussing the prices, trying to calculate what they could afford.
Our server, a woman named Patricia who had been a line cook at L’Orangerie, approached my table quietly. “Mr. Vance, those folks next to you—it’s their anniversary. First one. They’re worried about the bill.”
“Put their meal on my tab,” I said. “Don’t tell them until they ask for the check.”
Patricia smiled. “Yes, Chef.”
An hour later, I heard the couple’s surprise and delight when Patricia informed them their dinner had been taken care of by an anonymous guest. They looked around the restaurant, trying to figure out who had been so generous, never suspecting the guy in the t-shirt at the next table.
That moment—their genuine joy, their relief, their gratitude—was worth more than any Michelin star or glowing review.
The Real Lesson
Six months after the L’Orangerie incident, I was invited to speak at a hospitality industry conference. The organizers wanted me to discuss the dramatic shutdown and what it revealed about management and company culture.
I stood on that stage, looking out at an audience of restaurant owners, hotel executives, and culinary professionals, and I told them the truth.
“Philippe Dubois didn’t fail because he made one mistake,” I said. “He failed because he fundamentally misunderstood what we do. He thought our job was to create exclusive spaces where the wealthy and famous could feel superior to everyone else. He thought luxury meant exclusion.”
I paused, letting that sink in.
“But real hospitality—genuine, excellent hospitality—is about making every guest feel valued. It’s about creating spaces where people can experience something special, regardless of who they are or what they’re wearing. The moment you start treating people differently based on their appearance or perceived status, you’ve stopped being in the hospitality business. You’ve become a gatekeeper of elitism.”
The audience was silent, attentive.
“I wore that t-shirt deliberately that night,” I admitted. “I wanted to see how my staff treated someone who didn’t look like they belonged. And Philippe failed that test spectacularly. But here’s the thing—he’d been failing that test for months. We’d had complaints. We’d had warning signs. I should have addressed it sooner.”
I took a breath.
“The lesson isn’t just about firing bad managers. It’s about building cultures where that kind of behavior isn’t tolerated from day one. It’s about training staff to see every guest as deserving of respect and excellent service. It’s about remembering that the person in a t-shirt today might be your most loyal customer tomorrow—or they might just be a human being who deserves dignity regardless.”
The speech received a standing ovation. But more importantly, it started conversations throughout the industry about discrimination in fine dining, about accessibility, about who gets to feel welcome in expensive restaurants.
Full Circle
A year after closing L’Orangerie, I received an unexpected letter. It was from Philippe.
The envelope was simple, the handwriting shaky. Inside was a single page.
Mr. Vance,
I don’t expect forgiveness, and I’m not asking for my job back. But I wanted you to know that losing everything—my career, my reputation, my sense of self—forced me to confront some ugly truths about who I had become.
I’ve spent this year working as a server at a diner in Nevada. It’s humbling work. I get treated the way I used to treat others—sometimes with disrespect, sometimes with casual cruelty. And I finally understand what I put people through.
You were right. Clothes don’t define worth. Character does. And my character was bankrupt.
I’m not the same person I was that night. I’m trying to be better. I’m trying to treat every customer with the respect they deserve, regardless of who they are.
I don’t expect anything from this letter. I just wanted you to know that your lesson, as painful as it was, changed my life.
Respectfully,
Philippe Dubois
I read the letter twice, then filed it away. I didn’t respond. Some lessons need to stand alone, without validation or acknowledgment from the teacher.
But I hoped, genuinely, that Philippe had learned what he claimed. That somewhere in Nevada, there was a diner where every customer was treated with dignity by a man who had finally learned what hospitality really means.
The Legacy
Miller’s Table has been open for two years now. It’s consistently booked weeks in advance, not because of exclusivity or celebrity clientele, but because people know they’ll be treated well regardless of who they are.
We’ve expanded the concept to three more cities, each location maintaining the same principles: excellent food, reasonable prices, no dress code, and universal respect.
Table One at each location has a small placard that guests rarely notice. It reads simply: “Reserved for everyone.”
I still visit unannounced, still sometimes dressed in casual clothes, still observing how staff treat guests who don’t look wealthy or important. Most of the time, I’m pleased with what I see. When I’m not, I address it immediately—not with dramatic shutdowns, but with training, coaching, and if necessary, personnel changes.
The incident at L’Orangerie taught me that building a culture of respect requires constant vigilance. You can’t just establish principles and walk away. You have to live them, model them, and enforce them consistently.
And you have to remember that everyone deserves a seat at the table—not just the people who look like they belong there.
The man in the wet t-shirt wasn’t just testing his staff that night. He was defending a principle that his father had taught him years ago: that dignity isn’t something you earn through wealth or fame or fashion. It’s something you’re born with, and any establishment worth visiting will honor that.
L’Orangerie is gone, but what it became—Miller’s Table and the culture it represents—is a better legacy than any three-star rating could ever be.
And every time I see a couple in jeans and sneakers enjoying an anniversary dinner at Table One, every time I watch a server treat every guest with the same warmth and attention, every time someone walks through our doors and feels welcome regardless of their clothes or status, I know that the lesson of that night wasn’t just for Philippe.
It was for all of us.
Because at the end of the day, hospitality isn’t about crystal chandeliers or designer uniforms or exclusive reservations. It’s about the simple, profound act of treating every person who walks through your door like they matter.
Because they do.
All of them.
Sophia Rivers is an experienced News Content Editor with a sharp eye for detail and a passion for delivering accurate and engaging news stories. At TheArchivists, she specializes in curating, editing, and presenting news content that informs and resonates with a global audience.
Sophia holds a degree in Journalism from the University of Toronto, where she developed her skills in news reporting, media ethics, and digital journalism. Her expertise lies in identifying key stories, crafting compelling narratives, and ensuring journalistic integrity in every piece she edits.
Known for her precision and dedication to the truth, Sophia thrives in the fast-paced world of news editing. At TheArchivists, she focuses on producing high-quality news content that keeps readers informed while maintaining a balanced and insightful perspective.
With a commitment to delivering impactful journalism, Sophia is passionate about bringing clarity to complex issues and amplifying voices that matter. Her work reflects her belief in the power of news to shape conversations and inspire change.