7
1332 Words
Isabella Leonardo:
Something hung between us. Something unspoken but painfully loud. The tension wasn’t new—it had always lingered, just beneath the surface. But now it felt heavier. More dangerous. Like if either of us said the wrong thing, everything we’d buried would come rushing back.
And I wasn’t sure if I wanted to run from it or dive straight in.
“Want to join or what?” Christopher asked, water glistening on his skin as he tilted his head toward the pool.
I exhaled slowly, shook my head. “Nah. I’m good. I… I think I’ll take a walk around. Be back in maybe forty minutes.”
He hummed in response. “Mm.”
I lingered for a moment, glanced back at him once more. His gaze hadn’t left me.
Then I turned and walked out of the villa.
Leaving the house wasn’t as easy as stepping outside. I had to get through a gate. One of the guards asked where I was going, then gave me a once-over before waving me off. I didn’t blame him—it wasn’t the kind of place you could just stroll out of unnoticed.
Outside, the air felt different. Lighter, maybe. Real.
I walked down the clean, quiet streets of the upscale neighborhood, eyes scanning every building, every shop sign. I needed a job. Anything that would let me earn my keep. It didn’t have to be much—just enough to keep my pride intact.
After walking a few blocks, my thoughts elsewhere, I suddenly bumped into someone.
“Oh—I’m sorry,” I said quickly, stepping back.
“Watch where you’re going,” the guy muttered, annoyed as he bent down to pick up the papers he dropped.
“I didn’t see you, sorry,” I said again, helping him gather the scattered sheets. My hand landed on a flyer.
“WAITRESS NEEDED – NIGHT SHIFT – GREAT PAY”
I looked up. “Is this still available?”
He raised an eyebrow, then looked me over. “Yeah. You interested?”
“What’s the pay like?”
He told me. It wasn’t mind-blowing, but for someone in my situation, it was more than fair. I nodded. “Okay. I’m interested.”
“Come with me,” he said, already turning toward a narrow side street.
I followed him without much thought—something I’d probably question later—but right now, I needed this. I needed to do something for myself.
We reached the bar, tucked between luxury shops and high-end boutiques. But this wasn’t some grimy dive. No, this place had tinted windows, velvet ropes, and security out front.
This was a bar for the rich. The powerful. The men in suits who bought drinks like they bought stocks—casually and without blinking.
I felt my nerves twist.
Inside, music played low and smooth. The lights were dim but elegant. The smell of expensive liquor mixed with cologne and polish.
He led me to a small reception counter. Two women stood behind it, one typing, the other scrolling through something on a tablet.
“She’s here about the job,” the guy said.
Both women looked at me. One of them raised a brow. “You interested?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
She handed me a form. I started filling it out when she leaned in slightly, eyes sweeping over me from head to toe. Her lips curved in a half-smirk.
“Nice figure,” she said flatly. “That’ll help your chances.”
My cheeks warmed, but I said nothing. This wasn’t about pride anymore. It was about surviving.
She tapped her fingers on the counter. “Bring the form back tomorrow. Wear something… tighter.”
I swallowed. “Okay.”
I walked out of the bar with the paper still in hand, heart pounding.
This was it.
A start.
Even if it meant serving drinks to spoiled millionaires… at least it was mine.
I got home late. No dinner. No appetite. I just sat there, curled on the edge of the bed, staring at the application form like it was some kind of lifeline. My name scribbled at the top, the job title underlined in black ink: Waitress – The Pearl Lounge.
A bar that looked like it belonged in a billionaire’s wet dream.
I wasn't proud. But pride didn’t pay bills.
The next morning, I was up before the sun. Showered, brushed, layered on deodorant like armor. I pulled on the outfit they requested: a black fitted dress that clung to every curve like a second skin. Too short, too tight, too revealing. But it was what they wanted.
I stared at my reflection and sighed. “This is temporary,” I whispered to myself. “Just temporary.”
Then I stepped out.
Christopher was on the couch, still in sweatpants, hair tousled, mug in hand. He glanced up and did a double-take.
His voice came out rough. “Where the hell are you going… wearing that?”
I blinked. “A job interview. At a bar. Maybe a club. I don’t know.”
He scoffed, setting the mug down louder than necessary. “A bar? Are you serious? What happened to your pride, huh?”
“Buried it.” My voice was flat. I adjusted my bag on my shoulder. “Now, if you don’t mind—I have somewhere to be.”
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, studying me. That intense stare that made me want to fidget.
“You’re really doing this?”
“Yeah. I am.”
A long pause. He didn’t say anything else. But I felt something shift in his expression.
I turned and walked out before I let it get to me.
---
The cab dropped me at the bar’s side entrance—sleek black walls, frosted windows, and the kind of polished silence that screamed money.
I stepped in. A tall guy behind the front desk looked up. “Oh… you're back.”
I offered a tight smile. “Yeah. Said to come for the interview today?”
“Right, right. You’re Isabella, yeah?”
“Yes.”
He handed me a clipboard. “Fill this. You’re early.”
A woman with sharp cheekbones and bright red lipstick passed by and gave me a quick once-over. “Nice body,” she muttered with a smirk. “You’ll fit in.”
I wasn’t sure if that was meant as comfort or a warning.
After an hour of waiting, another man—gray blazer, Rolex, not smiling—called my name.
“You still interested?”
“Yes.”
“You ever served at a place like this?”
“No, but I’m a fast learner.”
He eyed me. “We like girls with confidence. And curves. You’ve got both.”
I said nothing.
“Congrats. You’re hired. You start tomorrow, 6 p.m. Dress code is tight, short, and black. You’ll find your uniform in the bag we’ll give you.”
He passed me a paper bag with a dress inside. I took it.
“Welcome to The Pearl Lounge,” he added, almost like a joke.
I couldn’t stop smiling on the way home. Not because the job was glamorous—but because I earned it. Me. No pity. No charity.
I opened the front door and blinked. Christopher was still there.
Still on that damn couch.
“You’re back,” he said.
“I live here,” I replied, slipping my heels off.
He stood up, arms crossed. “So… did you get the job?”
“Yes.” I met his eyes, chin high. “Why? Thought I wasn’t pretty enough for it?”
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to. You were thinking it.”
He stepped closer. “Oh come on, Isabella. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. And you know it.”
That hit something I didn’t want to admit. My throat tightened.
- Writer
