Chapter 2
Snickers rippled through the room.
"She had it coming," someone muttered. "Ethan treated her like gold back in school."
"Call it karma," another said. "Look at Mr. Hale now, worth billions of dollars. And her? Carrying trays."
"My, my," someone else drawled. "How the tables have turned."
I listened to every cutting word with a blank face, as if it were a story that had nothing to do with me.
Seven years.
I had long since grown a shell of iron.
Scraping by in the darkest corners of this city, I'd washed dishes in back kitchens, hauled crates in freezers, had drinks thrown in my face by drunks, and been called a broke loser to my face by my landlord.
As for dignity, that had shattered into nothing on one rainy night long ago, leaving not even a shard behind.
"Mr. Hale, your wine," I said again, my voice even.
Ethan searched my eyes, as if hunting for some trace of regret, shame, or tears.
He came up empty.
There was nothing in my eyes.
Only endless numbness and exhaustion.
That indifference seemed to set him off.
His hand shot up and knocked the glass right out of mine.
Ethan pulled out a napkin and wiped his hand, his gaze ice-cold. "This wine's cheap. Not to my taste.
"Bring another. Something aged, like the one from seven years ago."
He was humiliating me.
Seven years ago he had been a broke kid, and he'd scrimped and saved for three months to buy me a cheap bottle of wine for my birthday.
We'd sat on the grass at the football field, passing it back and forth, cheeks flushed, promising each other forever.
And now, in his own way, he was reminding me what betraying him had cost.
Lena laughed and chimed in. "Ethan, don't be hard on her. That bottle costs a fortune. She can't afford it. Have her apologize to Mr. Hale and clean the floor."
I crouched down, took out a cloth, and wiped the wine stains from the carpet, inch by inch.
Shards of glass bit into my fingertips. The pain was sharp and deep.
I didn't so much as flinch.
I thought, 'There goes the commission on that bottle, and I'll owe for the broken glass. Tonight's shift is a wash. I might even lose half a month's pay.'
This was my life now.
No romance, no dreams. Only endless bills to add up and debts that never seemed to shrink.
I thought, 'Love? That's a luxury only the rich can afford.'
"I'm sorry, Mr. Hale," I said.
I wiped up the last of the wine and stood, keeping my head bowed.
"I'll have the manager bring the best bottle we have," I said.
Ethan's gaze fell on the drops of blood at my fingertips. His pupils constricted for a fraction of a second before the cold returned.
"Get out," Ethan ordered.
I didn't leave.
Because Mr. Reed had told me the client in Room V888 had asked for me by name, for the whole night.
If I walked out now, the almost seven thousand dollars in tips would be gone, and they'd dock my base pay on top of that.
I really needed the money.
Mom's dialysis next month still wasn't covered, and the landlord had texted again to nag about next quarter's rent.
So I slipped into the bathroom, patched up my fingers, and made my way back to that suffocating room.
By the time I pushed the door open again, the mood inside had shifted.
A few rounds in, the polished elites had started peeling off their masks, and the ugliest parts of human nature were slipping through.
They were playing truth or dare.
A tired old game, but it always worked. With enough alcohol in the mix, nothing stripped people bare faster.
The table was littered with empty bottles. Louis XIII, Hennessy Richard, Ace of Spades...
The price tag on that pile of glass would have bought me a broom-closet apartment somewhere in this city.
Lena was clearly plastered.