Chapter 2
1391 Words
I changed quickly into my uniform: a crisp black shirt, fitted trousers, and an apron that smelled faintly of onions and despair. The fabric clung to my skin, already warm from the chaos of the kitchen. I caught a glimpse of myself in the narrow staff mirror—hair in a messy bun, which I repacked, eyes tired, lipstick faded to a sad ghost of color. Perfect. Just the picture of someone who’d been surviving on caffeine, sarcasm, and bad luck. I quickly wipe the lipstick off, it's better that way and I moisturized my lips with my saliva.
The restaurant was already buzzing with life. Glasses clinked like chimes, laughter rose and fell in uneven bursts, and the hum of overlapping conversations wove together into a chaotic symphony. Golden light spilled from chandeliers above, coating everything in a sheen of luxury. The air shimmered faintly with the scent of butter, smoke, and something expensive I couldn’t quite name.
Behind the bar, bottles lined up like soldiers ready for war—vodka, whiskey, gin—each glinting under the lights. The bartenders moved with rehearsed precision, shaking, pouring, and garnishing drinks like they were performing on stage. Waiters zipped across the floor like caffeinated bees, trays balanced precariously in one hand, polite smiles glued on their faces. The scent of grilled steak, garlic butter, and freshly baked bread wrapped around me, teasing my grumpy, empty stomach.
“VIP table,” Kate whispered when she caught me adjusting my apron.
I groaned softly. “Who do you think it is this time?”
“Probably some wrinkly old man with a fat wallet and a trophy wife,” she said, smirking.
I snorted. “As long as he tips, I don’t care if he’s Methuselah himself.”
Kate giggled, brushing imaginary dust from her sleeve. “Or maybe a celebrity. Imagine if it’s someone like—”
“Stop.” I held up a hand. “The universe is already against me. Don’t jinx it.”
She pouted dramatically. “You’re no fun.”
I gave her a side-eye that said fun doesn’t pay rent, and turned to refill my tray with water glasses.
Ten minutes later, the doors opened.
A hush rippled through the restaurant like a sudden gust of wind. Heads turned. Conversations dipped mid-sentence. Even the jazz playing softly through the speakers seemed to quiet itself, aware of the shift in atmosphere.
Mr. Knight.
The name rolled through whispers, like an electric current sparking from one table to another.
And then it hit me—Alexander Knight. Billionaire CEO of Nexacore. Ruthless. Untouchable. The kind of man whose face graced magazine covers and whose scandals fueled every gossip column in New York. He was named the most eligible bachelor for five years in a row, and the youngest self-made billionaire under thirty.
And, because the universe clearly had a sense of humor—he owned this restaurant too.
Lucky me.
Lizzy spotted him first. Her jaw nearly unhinged. She smoothed her skirt so aggressively I thought she’d iron it flat with her palms, then tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, eyes wide with awe. “Oh my God,” she whispered, practically vibrating. “That’s him.”
I followed her gaze.
He walked through the doors like the world itself tilted to make room for him—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a charcoal suit tailored so sharply it could’ve cut glass. His dark hair was perfectly styled, a single rebellious strand falling forward as if even his perfection allowed for one imperfection—strategically placed, of course. His expression was unreadable, his jaw set, eyes sweeping the room in a way that made everyone straighten without realizing it.
He didn’t walk. He moved. Smooth. Controlled. Dangerous.
Even the air around him seemed to change—thicker, heavier, charged with the kind of energy that made your pulse quicken for reasons you couldn’t explain.
Lizzy almost tripped over her heels trying to meet him halfway. “Mr. Knight,” she said, her voice a breathless mix of reverence and panic. “Welcome back, sir.”
He gave a slight nod. No smile. No warmth. Just acknowledgment, and somehow that single motion held more authority than most people’s speeches.
When Lizzy gestured toward the velvet-roped booth reserved for him, she stumbled slightly, catching herself with a nervous laugh. He didn’t even blink. He simply slid his hands into his pockets, his gaze scanning the room like he owned not just the restaurant—but the people inside it.
Which, technically, he did.
Then Lizzy turned, her gaze slicing toward me like a blade. “Zoey! Now!”
My stomach dropped. “What?”
“I told you that you're taking the VIP table!” she hissed under her breath.
“I thought you were joking!”
“Do I look like I am?” She hissed “ Just go, we don't want to keep them waiting."
Them. It had to be more than one person.
My legs moved before my brain caught up. I grabbed the tray of water glasses, palms slick with sweat, heart thudding loud enough to drown out my thoughts.
Okay, Zoey. You’ve got this. Breathe. Don’t make a fool of yourself. Don’t—
My sneaker caught the edge of the rug.
The tray tilted.
A glass slid.
Time slowed.
The water tipped forward, splashing across the polished table—and directly onto Alexander Knight’s expensive charcoal suit.
Gasps echoed through the restaurant like a gunshot. Every head turned. My heart stopped cold.
“Oh my God,” I breathed, horror clawing its way up my throat. “I’m so sorry! I—oh my God—I didn’t mean—” I scrambled for napkins, blotting at his sleeve like a madwoman. My hands trembled so badly I nearly dropped the whole stack. “It was an accident, I swear—”
His hand shot out, gripping my wrist. Firm. Cold. Controlled.
“Stop.”
One word. One command.
His voice was deep—smooth like velvet, but heavy enough to silence the entire room.
My breath hitched. His eyes met mine, a stormy gray that held neither anger nor amusement. Just blank. Like nothing happened.
I froze, the napkin hovering uselessly midair. The heat from his touch burned through my skin, and yet his grip was steady, detached, like he wasn’t touching a person at all—just an object that had malfunctioned.
For a heartbeat, everything around us vanished. The music, the whispers, the sound of clinking glasses—all gone. It was just him and me.
The man I had just baptized in mineral water.
He released my wrist slowly, like he was letting go of a mistake he didn’t intend to make twice. Then, calmly, he reached for a napkin and dabbed at his sleeve himself, his movements unhurried.
“Clumsy,” he murmured. Not loud. Not cruel. Just… observant. As if he were making a note in his mental ledger.
The single word sank into me like ice water.
Lizzy rushed over, her voice trembling with forced politeness. “I—I apologize, Mr. Knight. This staff member is terribly unprofessional. I’ll have her replaced immediately.”
Her smile was all teeth, and I knew what it meant. Fired. Right here. Right now.
My throat went dry. I opened my mouth to speak, to defend myself, but before a sound came out, he raised his hand—barely, but it was enough to silence her instantly.
“She’ll do,” he said.
Lizzy blinked. “Sir?”
“She’ll serve me tonight.” His tone brooked no argument.
Lizzy’s smile faltered. “But—”
His gaze flicked toward her once. Just once. And that was enough. She nodded rapidly. “Of course, Mr. Knight. Right away.”
And then she was gone.
Leaving me there. Standing in front of the most powerful man in the room. The most powerful man in the city, maybe. And a woman that looked like she want to murder me with her eyes. My pulse thundered in my ears as I tried to steady my breathing.
I wanted to disappear. To melt into the floor, crawl under the table, anything but stay under that sharp, assessing stare.
I was in trouble.
Big, billionaire-sized trouble.
- Writer
