Chapter Three
1101 Words
Eyes in the Shadows
The restaurant was alive with noise that night. Golden chandeliers swung slightly from the hum of air conditioners, and the polished floor gleamed with the reflections of moving waiters. The place was full — wealthy men in tailored suits, women in glittering dresses, their laughter carrying above the clinking of glasses and soft classical music from the corner stage.
Joy moved quickly, balancing a tray of steaming dishes on her palm. The smell of grilled steak and buttered bread wafted around her, making her empty stomach ache. But she kept her smile, weaving carefully through the maze of tables. Her apron was stained, her hands ached, but her pride forced her to stand straight.
She had learned one thing in this place: rich people rarely looked at the servers. To them, waiters were shadows — silent hands that appeared with food and disappeared with dirty plates. Joy preferred it that way. The less attention, the better.
But that night, attention found her.
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It had been three days since she had seen him. The man at table six. The man whose eyes had unsettled her in ways she could not explain. She had told herself it was nothing — just another arrogant customer with too much money and too much time. Yet every night since, when she closed her eyes, she remembered the way he had said her name. Slowly. Intentionally.
Joy.
She had hated how it lingered in her head.
“Joy! Table four, hurry,” her manager barked, pulling her back to the present. She nodded quickly and adjusted her tray, hiding her frustration.
On her way to table four, she passed the private section, its velvet curtains drawn halfway open. Her steps faltered.
He was there.
The same man. The Devil’s Son — though she didn’t know his true name yet.
He sat alone this time. His suit was black, perfectly tailored, his shirt crisp white. He leaned back in his chair with the calm confidence of a man who never had to prove himself to anyone. A glass of red wine glimmered in his hand, catching the light, untouched.
And then his eyes lifted.
They locked on hers instantly, like magnets snapping together.
Joy’s heart lurched. She dropped her gaze immediately, heat crawling up her neck. Her grip tightened on the tray. Not again. Don’t let him see you shake.
But his stare followed her. Even as she passed, even as she delivered food to another table, she could feel it burning across the room — heavy, watchful, unyielding.
When she returned to the kitchen, she leaned against the wall for a moment, pressing a hand to her chest. Why is he here again? Why does he keep looking at me like that?
---
Later that evening, the manager shoved a tray into her hands. “Private section. Go.”
Her breath caught. She wanted to refuse, to tell someone else to take it — but she couldn’t. Not with rent unpaid and her father’s medicine barely covered.
So she pushed through the velvet curtain.
His gaze rose immediately.
“Your order, sir,” she said quietly, placing the plate before him. She kept her head bowed, her eyes fixed on the polished table. Her hands trembled, but she forced them steady.
“You again,” he murmured.
The voice was low, smooth, dangerous in its calmness.
Joy’s throat tightened. “I work here, sir.”
He studied her. She could feel it without looking.
“Joy.”
She flinched at the sound of her name leaving his lips again, this time slower, softer.
Her eyes flickered up, just briefly. His expression was unreadable — neither cruel nor kind, but something in between. Something that unsettled her more than open arrogance would have.
“It suits you,” he said at last.
She swallowed hard. “Enjoy your meal, sir.” She turned quickly, leaving before her knees betrayed her.
---
From his seat, Damian Volkov swirled his wine slowly, eyes lingering on the curtain where she had disappeared.
He couldn’t explain it. He didn’t need to explain it. Women had always sought his attention, some openly, some desperately. But this girl — this waitress with tired eyes and a defiant chin — she had drawn him back here two nights in a row.
There was something in the way she carried herself, as if the weight of the world pressed on her shoulders, yet she refused to bend. Something in her silence that spoke louder than the chatter of the room.
And Damian Volkov was not a man who ignored things that caught his attention.
---
That night, when Joy returned home, she found her father asleep on the couch, his hand still clutching the worn photograph. She pulled a blanket over him and sat quietly, staring at the flickering candlelight.
But her mind was not calm. It kept circling back to those dark eyes, that voice, the way her name had rolled so easily from his lips.
She didn’t even know who he was.
And yet, deep in her chest, something whispered that whoever he was, her life had just begun to change — in ways she could not yet imagine.
The following days blurred together, a cycle of exhaustion and survival. Wake before dawn. Fetch water. Buy medicine. Work the long shift at the restaurant. Return home with aching feet, only to collapse beside her father’s bed.
But in the midst of the routine, her mind betrayed her. She found herself wondering if he would come again. She caught herself glancing toward the velvet curtains every time she passed. And each time she hated herself for it.
He’s just a customer, she reminded herself. A rich man with nothing better to do. You’re nothing to him. Nothing.
But still, the thought haunted her: why did he keep coming back?
And why did it feel like each time his eyes found hers, the ground beneath her shifted just a little more?
- Writer
