A Deal With The Devil

Revenge is a dish best served cold

Astra's POV

“Here, table 3’s order,’ I said, my voice barely audible over the din of the restaurant. Table 3. Table 3. I passed the jotted note to my co-worker, avoiding his gaze. The manager was on a rampage today, her yells ricocheting through the kitchen.

“Not now, Bob,” I snapped, walking past the jovial 18-year-old. His hand fell to his side.

My body felt heavy. Like a burden. A weight dragging me down.

I only wanted peace. To escape this place. Close my eyes and rest my weary head.

Doused in liquid. So heavy. So tired. So weak.

At 23, my life had already worn me down; a litany of loss. My mother. My dreams. My peace, gone at age 10 and then the remarriage of my father, who brought in my step mother and step sisters, wrongest additions to my life.

Right now life was like a huge white disco ball light, highlighting all of my problems and not leaving me air.

I stood behind the maître d' stand, smiling politely at customers as I skimmed through reservation lists. The clinking of glasses and silverware formed a familiar soundtrack to the evening, as my hands mechanically added and rearranged names on the seating chart. With every blink, my eyelids felt heavier, my feet more rooted to the expensive marble floor beneath me.

As a server at the upscale Vin et Rosé, I was used to putting on a show, making the guests feel welcome and important.

Yet I was never important.

A good sleep would be a dream. But dreams were for the privileged, for those whose lives weren't an endless cycle of waking nightmares.

My body twitched and glitched like a broken record, a stark reflection of my splintered life. My eyelids fluttered open, heavy and unresponsive.

The men's gazes lingered on me like flies on sticky paper. Every leering glance set my teeth on edge.

"Here are your drinks, sirs." My smile was as fake as my stepmother's Botox, my eyes glinting like icy shards of glass. Every fiber in my being wanted to slap the smugness off their faces, but I suppressed the urge with practiced restraint.

One of them reached out and grabbed my wrist, pulling me in closer. His grip was tight, suffocating. My heart raced like a ticking time bomb, ready to detonate. I was too tired for this. Too tired for men like him.

The air had turned cold, but my anger still simmered. My head buzzed, my vision blurred. I teetered on the edge of sanity, ready to lash out.

But the price would be too high. Slapping them would spoil my plans, and my plans were all I had left.

I yanked my hand free, the heat of their gazes burning my back as I stalked away, my footsteps the only sound I could hear in the vibrant restaurant.

Tired of my life, a very unsafe life, talk about an unsafe life, this is Cali, one of the unsafe, but did I have a choice in leaving? There was nothing as choice in my dictionary, I led a life bound by the shackles of my family, with my father holding the reins. And he had never let me forget it.

Each beat of my heart seemed to tear another string, until my chest felt like a harp with only broken chords. Was peace and quiet too much to ask for?

''Astra Ria Montero.'' I clutched my hair, my nails biting into my scalp, uttering my name as a curse, as if it were the shackle that bound me to this life, this pain. My head was buried in my knees, heavy silence over me like a foreboding shroud. Every beat of my heart tore another string, unraveling me. Was peace and quiet too much to ask for?

My body was wearing down on me. I was losing my grip, my sense of self.

"Astria's a hoe" I heard the cackling voice of one of my co workers, and unbeknownst to me I was a hoe, please tell me something I didn't know about myself.

“That’s not true,’ the other girl interjected, her voice seeming to feign concern. But even her words couldn’t hide the false note they struck, like a badly tuned violin in a symphony. In the silence that followed, I could almost hear her lips curling into a smirk, mocking my defense. Her words, despite their seemingly harmless exterior, were as toxic as the bile rising in my throat.

“What do you mean? Look at the attention she gets from men,’ the woman muttered. ‘She doesn’t complain—she loves it!’ Her voice dripped with jealousy, making my stomach churn. I was the object of their envy for a beauty that had only brought me trouble.”

My golden locks, wild and unruly as the thoughts in my head, seemed to frustrate the girls. My fiery ice blue eyes, piercing with a sharp coldness. My body, sculpted by a life of hard work and harsher circumstances, had a deadly allure that made men weak. And my skin, clear and smooth as the surface of a lake, flawless despite the turmoil raging beneath, made them envious of the beauty that had brought me nothing but trouble.”

"Please she's not that it" The other replied with those words that always made me question myself and confidence and paired with my father's detrimental remarks I would become the very thing my mother had warned me against—a woman defined by the opinions of others, rather than my own heart.

I stood, my legs shaky but determined, and threw open the stall door. The girls jumped, caught in the act of gawking at me in the mirrors as they touched up their makeup. Their expressions—wide-eyed, guilty, slightly fearful—confirmed what I already knew: they weren't worthy of my concern, of my self-doubt. I was Astra Ria Montero, a woman with a plan, a woman with a destiny. I had no time for their pettiness.

I sashayed to the mirror, my restive hair swaying behind me. With practiced ease, I scooped it up into a messy bun, tendrils escaping to frame my face. A splash of cool water on my skin chased the sleepiness away, and I met the girls’ hesitant stares in the glass.

They shifted uncomfortably, hands clutched around their waists like frightened schoolgirls. I flashed a sardonic smile. Wimps, I thought, stepping closer until they backed away, pressing themselves against the wall.

Beauty, after all, was the perfect marketing strategy. Nobody liked ugly things, least of all the rich. They loved to surround themselves with beauty, all the better to covet it, or even take it by force—something they had a knack for. At Vin et rosé, beauty was everything. Our waiting staff, hosts, and hostesses were hand-picked for their good looks.

And these girls, these gossiping harpies, they were just insecure and jealous.

A light chuckle escaped me, a tired, breathless thing.

“Next time you have new information about me,’' I drawled, a tired chuckle escaping me, ‘'pray, do tell.’' My eyes crinkled at the corners, but the unease on their faces remained.

These gossiping harpies weren’t worth my time. I turned, waving a dismissive hand, and strode out of the bathroom. Their sighs of relief followed me like flies buzzing around a carcass.

Pay day was tomorrow. A shred of hope in the darkening void. I straightened my shoulders, a parody of strength, and strode back to the counter. The men would be served soon, and I had to do a good job. They’d never know the storm brewing inside of me.

After an interminable wait, I sauntered to their table, my hips swaying hypnotically. The men’s gaze locked onto me, their lust a shield against any attempts to suss out my true intentions.

This was going to be easy.

"No!" I knocked out the blonde's half drunk juice, as I watched his eyes widen and a sick grin spread across his face.

The unsettling music had begun to play again.