004
1518 Words
Lila’s grip on my wrist is iron-tight, her nails digging into my skin as she drags me through the heavy velvet curtains that separate the VIP lounge from the main floor. The thumping bass of the club fades into a muffled, rhythmic vibration, replaced by the hushed, expensive silence of the private area. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic drum solo that drowns out the plush carpet sinking beneath my stilettos.
"Who the f**k does he think he is?" I spit, the words tasting like bile. I thrash against Lila’s hold, trying to turn back toward him. "Arrogant prick. Sitting there like he owns the world, treating me like I’m some piece of meat off the clearance rack. I hope that wine stains his thousand-dollar suit forever. I hope it rots."
"Anastasia, stop it!" Lila hisses, shoving me down onto a chaise lounge. She stands over me, chest heaving, her eyes wide with a mix of fury and terror. "Are you trying to get us fired? You just assaulted a VIP in the main booth. A VIP, Ana! Do you have any idea how much money he drops here in a single night?"
"I don't give a s**t about his money!" I yell, leaning forward, my hands balling into fists in my lap. "He called me a slut. He looked at me like I was garbage. I was polite, Lila. I was so f*****g polite until he pushed me too far."
"And you poured a full glass of Merlot on his lap!" Lila shouts back, her voice cracking. She runs a hand through her hair, messing up her perfect curls. "Jesus Christ. You’re lucky Marcus got there when he did. If I hadn’t pulled you away, you’d be in handcuffs right now."
I slump back against the cushions, the adrenaline draining out of me, leaving a cold, shaky void in its wake. The silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. Lila paces the small room, her heels clicking sharply on the floor.
"You need to breathe," she says, her voice dropping to a softer, pleading tone. She stops pacing and sits down next to me, placing a hand on my knee. "Just breathe. You can't go back out there. Not tonight."
"I just... I needed the money, Lila," I whisper, staring at the ceiling. The tears are hot and sudden, stinging the corners of my eyes. "I just needed enough to cover the next payment for Dad. I wasn't trying to pick him up. I wasn't trying to be a w***e. I just wanted help."
Lila’s grip on my knee tightens. She sighs, a long, weary sound that seems to carry the weight of every double shift we’ve ever pulled. "I know, Ana. I know you did. We all do what we have to do."
"It’s not fair," I choke out, the first tear spilling over and tracking a hot line down my cheek. "He’s sitting there in his bespoke suit, probably not even knowing what it feels like to watch someone die because you can't afford the good doctors. He looked at me and he didn't see a person. He saw a hole to fuck."
"Shh, don't," Lila says, wrapping her arm around my shoulders and pulling me into her. The scent of her vanilla perfume wraps around me, cloying and sweet. "You can't think like that. You’ll drive yourself crazy."
"But it’s true!" I sob, turning my face into her shoulder. "I’m so scared, Lila. If I lose this job... if they fire me for this... Dad is done. I can't let him die. I can't."
"You're not going to lose him," she murmurs, stroking my hair. "We’ll figure it out. I’ll talk to Marcus. Maybe he can smooth it over."
I cry harder, my body shaking with the force of it. The humiliation, the fear, the exhaustion—it all crashes down at once. I let Lila hold me, soaking the shoulder of her tight dress with snot and tears, unable to stop the tide. I feel small and pathetic, a stark contrast to the rage that fueled me just moments ago.
A sharp cough from the doorway cuts through my breakdown.
I freeze, pulling away from Lila to see a tall man in a sharp tuxedo standing there. He looks like he hasn't slept in a week, his eyes tired and critical. He clears his throat again, louder this time.
"Anastasia?" he asks, his voice clipped and professional.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand, smearing my mascara. "Yeah?"
"The Boss wants to see you," he says, gesturing toward the hallway. "Now."
My stomach drops into my shoes. "The Boss? You mean... Mr. Vane?"
The man doesn't answer, just turns and walks away, expecting me to follow.
"Oh god," I whimper, looking at Lila. "I’m dead. I’m actually dead."
Lila grabs a handful of tissues from a box on the table and starts scrubbing at my face. "It’s okay. Just go in there, apologize, and tell him you were having a personal crisis. Grovel if you have to. Mr. Vane can be reasonable if you show him respect."
"I poured wine on his guest, Lila," I say, my voice trembling. "He’s not going to be reasonable."
"Just fix your face," she orders, shoving me toward the door. "And keep your mouth shut unless you’re saying sorry."
I stumble out of the lounge, my legs feeling like lead. The walk to the executive office feels like a death march. The corridor is lined with framed photos of celebrities and politicians who have passed through these doors, all of them smiling, oblivious to the terror I’m feeling. I reach the heavy mahogany door at the end of the hall and take a deep, shaky breath. I knock, my knuckles rapping weakly against the wood.
"Come in," a deep voice booms.
I push the door open and step inside. The office is massive, dominated by a huge desk that looks like it was carved from a single block of dark wood. Mr. Vane is sitting behind it, looking furious, his face red. But my eyes slide past him to the figure standing by the floor-to-ceiling window.
The man I pour wine in. Mr. Sinclair Tristan
He’s changed his jacket. The wine stain is gone, replaced by fresh black fabric that fits his broad shoulders perfectly. He’s looking out at the city lights below, his hands clasped behind his back, looking completely calm. Unbothered.
"Anastasia," Mr. Vane snaps, slamming a hand on his desk. "Do you have any idea the kind of liability you just created for this establishment? Assaulting a guest? Destroying property?"
"I... I’m sorry, Mr. Vane," I stammer, my voice barely audible. "I didn't mean to... it was a mistake."
"A mistake?" Vane scoffs. "It was a tantrum. I should have you dragged out of here by your hair and blacklisted from every venue in the city."
"Please," I beg, clasping my hands together in front of me. "I need this job. My father is sick. I was just upset. I’m so sorry."
Tristan turns away from the window. The sound of his shoes on the marble floor is deliberate, slow. He walks past me, the scent of expensive sandalwood and something metallic filling my nose, and stops in front of the desk.
"Valerius," Tristan says, his voice smooth and low, like velvet dragging over gravel. "Don't worry about it."
Vane blinks, his anger deflating instantly into confusion. " Tristan? But she... she ruined your suit. She humiliated you."
Tristan lets out a soft, dark chuckle. He turns around, his eyes locking onto mine. They are cold, calculating, and hungry. He looks at me not as a person, but as an object he has just decided to acquire. The air in the room seems to thin, making it hard to breathe.
"On the contrary," Tristan says, gesturing toward me with a lazy wave of his hand. "I think she has fire. It’s exactly what I was looking for."
I shrink back, a chill running down my spine. "Excuse me?"
Tristan checks his watch, a heavy gold piece that glints under the office lights. "It is 2:42 AM," he says, his eyes never leaving mine. "The night is still young, and I find myself... unsatisfied with the options I’ve been presented so far."
He takes a step closer, invading my personal space. I can feel the heat radiating off his body. He reaches out, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair away from my face. His touch is possessive, firm.
"I’m going to the estate in the mountains tonight," he says, his tone dropping, becoming intimate and terrifying. "It’s far away from here. Quiet. Private." He pauses, his gaze raking over my body, stripping me bare without removing a single piece of clothing. "And I’ve decided I want you to be the one to keep me company."
My mouth goes dry. "I... I don't..."
"You don't have a choice, Anastasia," he cuts me off, a smirk playing on his lips. "You owe me a debt. And I intend to collect."
- Writer
