The apartment smelled of rain and instant noodles.
Water leaked through the corner of a window that never fully shut, leaving a permanent stain on the wall no matter how many towels I stuffed beneath it.
I sat cross-legged on my bed sorting cash tips into tiny piles.
Rent.
Electricity.
Groceries.
The grocery pile was, as always, the smallest.
At thirty-two years old, I still lived one unexpected expense away from disaster.
My feet throbbed inside socks I’d worn for twelve straight hours.
Some nights, life felt like being underwater.
You weren’t drowning exactly.
You were simply never allowed to breathe.
Then my manager called.
“Can you work a charity dinner tonight?”
I almost said no.
But overtime wasn’t something I could afford to refuse.
Three hours later, I was balancing a tray of champagne glasses beneath crystal chandeliers worth more than everything I owned.
I had skipped both lunch and dinner just to fit into the uniform.
That’s when Russell noticed me.
He stood near the center of the ballroom, silver touching his temples, dressed in a tailored suit that probably cost more than my car.
He took a glass.
Then he looked directly at me.
Not through me.
At me.
“Long day?” he asked.
I laughed softly.
“You have no idea.”
He glanced down at my feet.
“They hurt, don’t they?”
I blinked in surprise.
Nobody had ever asked me that before.
Not customers.
Not bosses.
Not even most people I’d dated.
Then, without making a scene, he caught the catering captain’s attention and quietly moved a chair behind one of the columns.
“Take five minutes,” he said.
I stared at him.
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
