Pretend to be mine

Elena Rivera’s feet ached in a way that had become familiar, the kind of deep, bone-level tiredness that no amount of cheap coffee could fix. The restaurant lights above the bar glowed too brightly, reflecting off polished wood and crystal glasses as she wiped down the same section of counter for the third time. Her shift had started at four. It was now past nine. Sofia’s latest text still sat unread on her phone in the back pocket of her black pants: *Tuition office called again. They said Friday is the last day.* She did not open it. Opening it would mean acknowledging the number that had been circling her mind all week—eighteen thousand dollars still owed, and no clear path to finding it. The tips tonight had been decent but nowhere near enough. They never were. “Table twelve just sat,” the hostess murmured as she passed. “VIP. Be careful.” Elena nodded and smoothed her apron. VIP usually meant expensive wine, complicated orders, and the kind of people who looked through servers as if they were part of the furniture. She grabbed a fresh bottle of still water and a tray, then made her way across the dining room. The man at table twelve did not look up when she approached. He sat alone, jacket draped over the back of the chair, white shirt sleeves rolled once at the wrists. A thin scar ran from the left side of his jaw down toward his collar, pale against otherwise perfect skin. His dark hair was slightly disordered, as if he had run his hands through it too many times. Even seated, he carried an unmistakable authority, the kind that made the air around him feel heavier. Elena set the water down carefully. “Good evening. My name is Elena. I’ll be taking care of you tonight. Can I start you with something from the bar?” He glanced up. His eyes were a cold, clear gray, assessing her in a single sweep that felt more like an appraisal than a greeting. “The 2015 Bordeaux. The one on the reserve list. And leave the bottle.” His voice matched the rest of him—low, precise, used to being obeyed. Elena inclined her head and left to retrieve it. In the small service area she checked the label twice before returning. The bottle was worth more than two weeks of her rent. She presented it, opened it with steady hands, and poured a small taste. He swirled, sniffed, then nodded once. She filled the glass and set the bottle within reach. “Anything else for now?” “No.” She turned to leave. Her tray caught the edge of the water glass she had placed earlier. The glass tipped. Clear liquid spilled across the white tablecloth and onto the cuff of his shirt before she could react. Elena froze. “I am so sorry,” she said quickly, setting the tray down and reaching for a napkin. “Let me—” He caught her wrist. Not hard, but firm enough to stop her. His fingers were warm, the pressure deliberate. “Leave it.” She pulled her hand back the moment he released her. Embarrassment burned across her face. “I’ll get a clean cloth and a new setting right away.” “That won’t be necessary.” He looked at the dark stain spreading on the expensive fabric, then back at her face. Something unreadable moved behind his eyes. “What’s your name again?” “Elena. Elena Rivera.” He repeated it once, quietly, as if testing the sound. Then he reached into the inner pocket of the jacket hanging behind him and withdrew a sleek black card case. From it he took a heavy, cream-colored business card and a pen. He wrote something on the back, then held the card out between two fingers. “My office. Tomorrow morning, nine o’clock. Don’t be late.” Elena stared at the card without taking it. “I don’t understand.” “You will.” He set the card on the table beside the wine stain and returned his attention to the glass as if the conversation had ended. “Nine o’clock, Miss Rivera. The address is on the front.” She hesitated, then picked up the card. The name embossed in clean black letters read *Alexander Kane, CEO, Kane Industries*. The back held only an address in Midtown and a single sentence written in sharp handwriting: *Come prepared to discuss a temporary arrangement.* Elena slipped the card into her apron pocket, heart beating too fast. “I still have a shift to finish.” “Then finish it.” He did not look at her again. “I’ll be waiting.” She returned to the service station on unsteady legs. Daniel, her closest friend on staff, raised an eyebrow when he saw her face. “What happened? You look like you saw a ghost.” “I spilled water on Alexander Kane.” Daniel’s eyes widened. “The Alexander Kane? The one who bought half of tech last year?” “Apparently.” She pulled the card out just far enough for him to see the name, then pushed it back. “He told me to come to his office tomorrow morning.” “For what? To get fired from a restaurant you don’t even work at?” “I don’t know.” Elena glanced toward table twelve. Alexander Kane sat exactly as before, wineglass in hand, expression carved from stone. “He said something about a temporary arrangement.” Daniel shook his head. “Men like that don’t make arrangements with waitresses unless they want something. Be careful.” She spent the rest of the shift moving on autopilot, delivering plates and clearing tables while the card burned against her hip. Every time she passed table twelve she felt his gaze, though he never seemed to be looking directly at her. When he finally rose to leave, he placed several hundred-dollar bills on the table—far more than the cost of the wine—and walked out without another word. Elena finished her side work in silence. In the locker room she changed out of her uniform and sat on the narrow bench for a long moment, staring at the card. Eighteen thousand dollars. Sofia’s future. The number refused to leave her mind. She could ignore the invitation. She could pretend the entire evening had never happened. Or she could show up at nine o’clock and find out what a man like Alexander Kane wanted from someone like her. Outside, the city air was cool against her flushed skin. She walked toward the subway with the card still in her hand, turning it over and over between her fingers. The scar on his jaw. The way he had held her wrist. The blank certainty in his voice when he told her to come. By the time she reached the platform she had already decided. Tomorrow morning she would walk into Kane Industries and listen to whatever temporary arrangement he planned to offer. She would keep her spine straight and her voice steady. She would not let him see how badly she needed the money. And if the price was something she could live with, she would take it. The train arrived with a rush of warm air and screeching brakes. Elena stepped inside, found a seat near the door, and finally opened Sofia’s message. She typed a short reply—*I’ll handle it. Don’t worry*—and sent it before she could change her mind. Somewhere above the city, in a glass tower she had never entered, Alexander Kane was waiting. Elena closed her eyes and let the motion of the train carry her home, the cream-colored card still warm from her grip. She had no idea that by this time tomorrow her entire life would be rewritten in the space of a single signature.