The Barton ballroom buzzed with quiet luxury. Golden light from crystal chandeliers spilled across polished marble, illuminating the swirl of designer gowns and bespoke tuxedos. Waiters weaved through the crowd with practiced ease, trays of champagne glinting beneath the lights.
For most, it was a night to celebrate.
For Annabelle, it was survival.
The uniform clung uncomfortably—a corseted top that restricted every breath, a skirt shorter than dignity allowed, heels that turned every step into a calculated risk. But she walked with her spine straight, her tray steady, her expression unreadable.
Annabelle forced her shoulders back, reminding herself she had to endure. Quitting wasn’t an option.
She moved between the glittering guests, tray steady, when a sharp, mocking voice cut throu
