The tray feels heavier than it should.
Amelia notices the weight the moment she lifts it from the mahogany counter—four different glasses, four different colors, four different weights pulling at her wrists. Her fingers tighten around the silver edges, her knuckles turning a stark, ghostly pale beneath the club’s amber lighting.
She tells herself it is just exhaustion. Overnight shifts always do this to her; they make the world feel slightly unreal, as if she is moving through water instead of air. The music is a muffled roar behind her, laughter spilling across the main floor as bodies press together in the dark, but the hallway leading toward the private rooms is quieter. Narrower. Dimmer.
The man had leaned in far too close when he placed the order at the bar.
“Private room,” he
