Drasa POV
Some days, I wonder why I’m still stuck behind this bar. Maybe it’s the money, maybe it's the weird sense of control I feel when I’m pouring drinks for people who clearly don’t deserve them.
Or maybe it’s Amelia’s annoying laugh that somehow keeps me sane through it all.
Work today was the same cocktail of chaos and crap. The moment we opened, some rich guy snapped his fingers at me like I was his personal maid.
Another complained about the “temperature of the ice” in his whiskey, like I carved it out of the wrong glacier.
The crowd only got ruder as the night went on, like some unspoken contest to see who could insult me with the biggest fake smile.
You’re slow, and the drink’s weak.”
I clenched my jaw, forcing a smile as I wiped the counter. “Then maybe you should try
