Eliza
I’m nervous when Brandon and I reach the restaurant. It’s a nice place, but I feel like I don’t belong here. I’ve never had the money to eat at a place like this. I’m a street rat, someone born and raised in the slums. This isn’t a place where I feel comfortable. I’m struggling to breathe after simply scenting the expensive dishes inside the building while Brandon seems right at home.
“This will be great,” Brandon says and grins over his shoulder as he leads me inside.
I reluctantly follow him with a weird feeling in my chest. My head plays up a weird fantasy scenario of some wealthy stranger randomly standing from their chair to shout, “Ha! You don’t belong here!” at me, but of course, that doesn’t happen.
I’m just being silly.
“Have you booked a table?” A waiter asks us.
“Y
