RICH X B!TCH

CHAPTER 2: WHAT'S IT GONNA BE?

LEAH'S POV — At Velvet Pine

Velvet Pine was alive in the worst way—loud, sticky, and crawling with the kind of energy that made your skin buzz for all the wrong reasons.

I hated this place.

I didn’t even bother clocking in. The manager, Miss Lupez, barely looked up from her tablet as I walked past the bar. Just gave me her usual nod of “Don’t screw this up,” and went back in.

My uniform didn’t help: a stiff burgundy vest too tight around the ribs, black skirt just short enough to get attention, and boots that made my feet ache before midnight. The whole uniform looked like it belonged in a catalog called Broke & Trying.

I tied my apron, slid behind the counter, and forced on my “Everything’s Fine” smile.

It wasn’t even fake at this point. It was a survival mechanism.

The regulars were already in place—lonely men with expensive watches and empty eyes. Girls in fishnets and heels navigated them like dancers in a dark ballet. I wasn't one of them—not really. I poured drinks, wiped counters, and tried not to let my pride drown in the swamp of glitter and desperation.

“Here you go sir.” I slid a drink across the bar, and he smiled. Not the friendly kind. The kind that made your skin crawl.

He was older, maybe forty. Wealthy in that shallow, showy way—Rolex peeking out from under his sleeve.

“You ever think about doing more than pouring drinks? A girl like you could make triple in the VIP rooms.”

“Excuse me?”I blinked.

He leaned in, his breath so sour with whiskey.

“I’ve seen you walk around here like you're better than the rest. But sweetheart, if you’re working in a place like this, you’re already halfway there.”

I gave him a look of pure disgust.

“I serve drinks. That’s it. And if you think I’d sell myself for a couple bucks and your pathetic approval, you’ve got the wrong girl.” I stared at him while gripping the tray tighter and tighter...I almost bruised my palm.

Oddly enough, he chuckled.

“Suit yourself. You’ll come around. They always do.”

“Maybe check the mirror before handing out advice. You look like a midlife crisis with a credit card.”

I turned on my heel before he could even say anything. I’d dealt with worse. And honestly? That was the scary part.

The night moved slowly, like it knew I wasn’t ready for what morning would bring.

The bass pulsed like a second heartbeat, lights blinked lazily through layers of smoke, and behind the bar, I wiped down the counter like my hands weren’t already raw. Second shift tonight. I’d been on my feet for nine hours straight, and all I had to show for it was $24 in tips and the growing certainty that I wouldn’t make rent by sunrise.

I was already rehearsing the speech I’d give Mr. Armstrong in the morning—something between an apology and a plea—when I spotted her.

A girl with legs that screamed Pilates and a top that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. She had that bored-rich energy—like she had nothing better to do than mess with the world for fun. She tapped her glass against the bar.

I poured her cocktail, and she smiled at me. One of those tight, glossy-lipped smiles that meant she was about to say something annoying.

“You work here?” she asked, blinking slowly.

What kind of f*****g question was that? I rolled my eyes.

“No, I just like sweating in polyester and pretending I’m invisible.”

She laughed. “Okay, sass. I like you.”

I didn’t respond. Just kept wiping the counter, waiting for her to get bored and leave.

But she didn’t.

“Okay, so… this is kinda random, but I wanna ask you something,” she said twirling her straw.

“What do you want? Time’s not exactly on my side.” I hastily said while checking my watch.

“I won’t waste it,” she said charmingly, leaning in a little. I’d seen her type before. Polished words masking rotten intentions. The kind of nice that came with strings, the kind of smile that meant trouble.

“My friend over there—it’s his birthday. But he’s being such a bore. We thought maybe a kiss from you would wake him up.”

She turned slightly and pointed toward the far booth. That’s when I saw him.

Her friend.

Tall and dark… sunlit chestnut to be precise. He was stupidly attractive, I won't deny that. The kind of guy who didn’t have to try, like trouble dipped in designer cologne. Clean jawline, messed-up hair, and a leather jacket. He was sitting alone in a booth like he was in a music video. One leg bounced, with a glass of scotch in one hand. He looked… annoyed? Or bored. Hard to tell. Probably both. I couldn’t stop staring.

She leaned closer. “Okay, don’t freak out.”

That’s exactly what someone says before you’re about to freak out.

I was already mentally clocking out of the whole mess, but no— did I just hear her say I should kiss him? Wtf! Like I’m some budget Cinderella and he’s handing out glass slippers. Oh, fabulous idea. Why not throw in a striptease while I’m at it?

“Excuse me? What do you take me for?”

"Just one kiss on the lips. Promise he won’t bite—unless you’re into that.”

I stared at her. Was this real life? Or some weird reality TV prank?

“No amount of money will make me do such a thing,” I said firmly.

She reached into her bag and pulled out a folded bill. It was chartreuse in color, a bit thick too. She held it up between two fingers, like a magician revealing her final trick.

“One hundred dollars.”

And just like that, that wall of sass I’d built up? Yeah, it buckled fast. Did she really just say $100? What was this, a budget rom-com directed by Satan?

I stared at the money. Then at her. Then back at the guy in the booth.

He still hadn’t looked this way.

She laughed again, delighted now.

“Just one kiss. And this hundred bucks is yours. Cash. No strings. No camera. Just… a fun little dare.”

I didn’t answer. Just stood there, heart thudding against my ribs.

Because the truth was—I needed that money. I needed exactly that money. That was it. That was all it would take to settle my rent, to keep my landlord from throwing me out tomorrow.

But what the hell kind of girl did she think I was?

I looked back toward the booth.

Still no reaction. He hadn’t even glanced up.

This wasn’t about him. This was about her. Some bored little rich girl looking for thrills. A joke she’d laugh about later over cocktails. “Remember when we paid that broke bartender to kiss you?”

A hundred bucks—enough to shut Mr. Armstrong up for another week. She leaned in one more time, her voice low, teasing.

“So… what’s it gonna be?”