Chapter two
2869 Words
AMELIA'S POV
The shrill sound of my alarm cut through the quiet darkness like a personal attack.
I groaned softly, my body protesting before my mind was even fully awake. Every muscle in me felt heavy, like yesterday’s exhaustion had settled deep into my bones instead of leaving with sleep.
For a moment, I stayed still.
Flat on my back and eyes closed.
Trying to pretend that if I ignored reality long enough, maybe it would ignore me too.
But reality had never been that kind.
With a tired sigh, I forced my eyes open and stared up at the faint water stain on our ceiling,the same oddly shaped stain Nina once claimed looked like a dying bird.
This morning… it somehow looked worse.
A dull ache pulsed behind my eyes, likely from last night’s crying, and my limbs felt sore from both overwork and emotional collapse.
I slowly pushed myself upright, wincing slightly as my shoulders protested.
“Fantastic,” I muttered dryly.
“Emotionally devastated and physically broken.”
My feet touched the cold floor, immediately sending an unpleasant chill through me.
For a brief moment, I simply sat there on the edge of my bed, elbows resting on my knees as I pressed my palms into my eyes.
Then it all came rushing back.
Papa’s retirement bills,my student loans,rent,three jobs….
And tonight…the charity gala.
My head lifted slightly.
One thousand five hundred dollars.
That amount alone wouldn’t fix my life. It wouldn’t erase my debt neither will it magically save my father.
But it would buy me time.
And lately…time felt like the most expensive thing in the world.
A small breath escaped me as I stood up fully, stretching my sore arms above my head.
Our tiny room was still dimly lit by the weak morning light pushing through the thin curtains, casting soft shadows across the cramped apartment. Nina’s side of the room looked exactly how I expected,chaotic but somehow functional. Clothes draped over her chair, makeup products scattered across her dresser, and one heel somehow lying in the middle of the floor like it had given up on life halfway through the night.
Meanwhile, Nina herself was very much alive. And snoring,Loudly.
I turned to look at her sprawled dramatically across her bed, one arm hanging off the side, her bonnet barely clinging to her curls like it too was fighting for survival.
Despite everything weighing on me…I laughed,Just a little.
Because somehow, Nina always managed to look like chaos in human form.
As if sensing my thoughts, she suddenly groaned.
“If you’re staring at me looking homeless again,” she mumbled without opening her eyes, “mind your business.”
A tired smile tugged at my lips.
“You literally look like you lost a fight in your sleep.”
Nina cracked one eye open.
“And yet… I’m still prettier than you before coffee.”
I gasped dramatically.
“That was unnecessarily rude for eight in the morning.”
“Truth hurts,” she muttered, rolling over.
I shook my head, moving toward our tiny kitchenette.
“You’re insufferable.”
“And lovable,” she corrected instantly.
I didn’t bother arguing because, unfortunately she was right.
The scent of stale bread and cheap coffee filled the kitchen as I began our usual routine.
I grabbed the loaf of bread from the counter, mentally calculating how many slices we had left and whether buying more this week would be realistic.
That was the kind of math my life had become.
Behind me, Nina finally dragged herself out of bed.
“So,” she began, her voice still rough with sleep, “are we panicking, crying, or pretending to have our lives together today?”
I glanced back at her.
“Can I choose all three?”
Nina grinned.
“That’s my girl.”
For the first time since waking up my anxiety eased slightly.
Because tonight terrified me.The wealthy strangers,the pressure and the desperate importance of not messing this up.
But if there was one thing Nina always did well,It was making survival feel slightly less terrifying.
She leaned dramatically against the kitchen counter, adjusting her slightly crooked bonnet as her curls fought for freedom around her face.
“Alright,” she announced, clapping her hands once like an overly aggressive life coach.
“Today, we transform you from emotionally unstable waitress into financially desperate elegance.”
I blinked at her.
“That somehow sounded both motivating and insulting.”
“Because it’s both,” Nina replied smoothly.
Before I could protest, she grabbed my wrist and practically dragged me toward the tiny bathroom mirror we both used despite its unforgiving lighting and slightly cracked corner.
“Stand still.”
I obeyed, mostly because resisting Nina when she entered one of her “projects” was usually pointless.
She studied me carefully through the mirror, her eyes narrowing with exaggerated seriousness.
I looked… tired.
No surprise there.
My honey-brown skin looked slightly dull from exhaustion, faint shadows resting beneath my eyes from stress and too many sleepless nights. My dark curls framed my face in soft, slightly untamed waves, and my full lips were pressed into a nervous line.
I knew I wasn’t unattractive.I just rarely had the luxury of looking my best.
My features were soft but expressive,large brown eyes, naturally defined cheekbones, and a figure that often attracted attention I neither wanted nor encouraged.
Years of juggling multiple jobs had kept me slim, though my body still held natural curves that made certain uniforms far more uncomfortable than necessary.
And unfortunately,Tonight’s gala uniform was one of them.
I glanced at the neatly hung outfit waiting for me.A fitted white button-up shirt,a short black skirt that hugged far more than I personally felt was necessary for serving drinks,and a slim black tie that somehow tried and failed to make the outfit look strictly professional.
“You know, for a charity event, this uniform feels weirdly committed to sexualizing poverty.”
Nina snorted.
“Welcome to hospitality.”
I sighed heavily, reaching for the outfit.
After changing, I stared at myself in the mirror again.
The skirt stopped several inches above my knee, fitted enough to emphasize my curves in ways that made me instinctively want to tug it down. The crisp white shirt hugged my waist neatly, while the black tie added an oddly polished contrast.
It wasn’t inappropriate exactly,just intimidating.
I shifted awkwardly.
“I look like I’m about to serve champagne and be severely underpaid.”
“No. You look like a woman who is about to secure fifteen hundred dollars.”
I couldn’t argue with that.
“Sit,” she ordered suddenly.
I narrowed my eyes.
“Why do you sound like a drill sergeant?”
“Because your face needs help and I’m the miracle worker.”
I laughed despite myself and sat down.
Nina wasn’t exactly a professional makeup artist, but years of working around wealthy women and appearance-focused environments had taught her enough.
Her fingers moved skillfully, applying light makeup with surprising precision.
A soft touch to even my complexion,a little definition around my eyes to make them stand out more,a subtle enhancement to my cheekbones,and a natural gloss that made me look polished without seeming overdone.
When she finally stepped back, she placed a hand dramatically over her chest.
She stared at me through the mirror, her eyes widening dramatically.
“Absolutely not,” she declared, placing a hand over her chest like she had just been personally offended.
I frowned.
“What?”
Nina shook her head slowly.
“Amelia Monroe… you cannot just casually stand there looking this breathtaking without at least warning people first.”
I turned toward the mirror fully…
And honestly?
I barely recognized myself.I still looked like me…But softer and sharper.
My exhaustion no longer dominated my face.
Instead, my features looked refined. Elegant even.
Nina smiled softly behind me.
“See?” she said gently.
“Life may be trying to destroy you, Amelia Monroe… but at least it’s going to do it while you look expensive.”
By the time Nina finally declared me “presentable enough to financially manipulate rich people,” the sun had already begun its slow descent, casting warm amber tones across our cramped apartment.
After one final inspection, a dramatic gasp, and an unnecessary amount of warning me not to trip in borrowed heels, I was finally out the door.
The entire ride to the gala was spent with my stomach twisted into nervous knots.
I kept smoothing invisible wrinkles from my skirt,checking my uniform,adjusting my tie and mentally reminding myself not to embarrass myself.
Fifteen hundred dollars.
That thought alone kept me grounded.
By the time I arrived, my breath caught so sharply it almost hurt.
The venue was… breathtaking.
No.
Breathtaking felt too small a word.
The grand estate looked like something pulled straight from a world I had only ever seen in movies or on the glossy pages of celebrity magazines. Towering marble columns framed the entrance, while golden lights illuminated the sprawling property with an elegance that felt almost unreal. Luxury cars lined the entrance in a glittering display of wealth I couldn’t even begin to comprehend.
Men in tailored suits stepped out like they owned the earth beneath them.
Women dripped in diamonds, silk, and confidence.
Everything shimmered.
Everything screamed money.
And standing there in my fitted server uniform, I had never felt more aware of exactly how small my world was in comparison.
“Focus, Amelia,” I whispered under my breath.
Inside, the ballroom was even more overwhelming.
Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead like hanging galaxies.
Soft classical music drifted through the air, blending seamlessly with polite laughter, clinking champagne glasses, and conversations that probably involved more money than I would see in ten lifetimes.
Every polished surface gleamed,every table looked flawless and every guest? They seemed untouchable.
I swallowed hard as one of the event coordinators rushed us into position.
“Tray up, smile, stay invisible unless spoken to.”
Stay invisible.
That, at least, I knew how to do.
For the first hour, I moved carefully through the crowd, balancing silver trays of champagne while silently praying I wouldn’t accidentally spill something on someone whose watch probably cost more than my student debt.
My feet already ached.
My cheeks hurt from forced politeness.
And the occasional dismissive glances from wealthy guests served as a constant reminder that in rooms like this, people like me were meant to blend into the background.
“Champagne?” I offered softly.
Some accepted without even looking at me.
Some ignored me entirely.
And a few let their eyes linger far too long in ways that made my skin crawl.
Still,I endured.
“You’re doing fine,” another waitress whispered as she passed me.
I offered a small grateful nod.
The sound of people shouting cut through my attention.At first, it was distant just a ripple through the crowd,then it grew louder.
Flashbulbs started bursting in rapid succession beyond the entrance. Bright white sparks lighting up the evening like a sudden storm of electricity.
“Move! Move!” someone yelled.
“Damien Sinclair is here!”
My hand paused mid-air with a tray of champagne.
I frowned slightly, turning toward the entrance without fully understanding why the atmosphere had suddenly changed.
Paparazzi swarmed the front steps, cameras raised high, shouting over each other as security tried to push them back. It looked less like an event arrival and more like an invasion.
“Damien! Over here!”
“Sir, one photo please!”
“Is it true you’ve expanded Sinclair Group into Europe again?”
The name echoed through the noise like it carried weight everyone was already familiar with.
I tilted my head slightly.
Damien… who?
Before I could think further, I heard it,whispers behind me, sharp and excited, like people were trying not to sound too impressed but failing anyway.
“That’s him…”
“Damien Sinclair.”
“The Sinclair Group CEO.”
Fragments followed immediately, scattered pieces of information slipping through conversations like broken glass.
“Youngest billionaire CEO in the country.”
“He took over after his father stepped down.”
“Built the company higher than it’s ever been.”
“They say he doesn’t tolerate mistakes… or people.”
I blinked slowly at that last one.
Doesn’t tolerate people?
What kind of personality description was that supposed to be?
More whispers continued like broken pieces of information.
“Cold.”
“Dangerous.”
“Impossible to approach.”
“But God, he’s—”
The sentence wasn’t finished.
Because Damien Sinclair had just entered the hall.
The entire room reacted instantly.
People stood up and then began to applaude.
My breath caught slightly as I stepped just enough to see him clearly. He was tall,well over six feet,with a commanding and well-built frame that made the space feel smaller around him. His face carried sharp, refined features: a defined jawline, high cheekbones, and a straight aristocratic nose that gave him a naturally intimidating elegance. His eyes were dark brown, carrying a steady and unreadable quality that made it seem like he noticed everything without needing to react. His dark hair was neatly styled back, with a few loose strands refusing perfect controlhis dark hair was neatly styled back, with a few loose strands refusing perfect control, softening an otherwise controlled appearance.
He wore a perfectly tailored black suit that sat flawlessly on his broad shoulders, the cut emphasizing his structured build. Beneath it, a crisp white shirt and a neatly knotted tie added to his polished, powerful presence.
He moved through the crowd with slow precision, like everything around him had been arranged for his arrival.
At his side was another man.Slightly shorter,broad smile, expensive suit, but his tie was a bit loose.
“That must be his friend,” someone near me whispered.
“Ethan Vale,” another server added quickly. “He’s the COO of Sinclair Group.”
Ethan leaned slightly toward Damien as they walked, saying something that made him briefly smirk,It was barely noticeable, but there.
Even then… Damien still outshone him without effort.
Ethan Vale looked rich.
Damien Sinclair looked like power itself had taken human form.
They reached the front seating area where the VIP table was already prepared.
And that was when I finally understood the scale of him.
Because a staff member near me whispered without thinking, almost proudly:
“Tonight’s charity gala is hosted and funded by Sinclair Group.”
I blinked.
He… organized all of this?
Before I could process it further, Damien took his seat.
And just like that, the entire room slowly settled again.
Like the world had just exhaled after holding its breath for him.
- Writer
