The VIP room hummed with an intoxicating blend of music, laughter, and the clinking of crystal glasses. Plush velvet sofas formed intimate circles where men in tailored suits exchanged business deals and women in shimmering dresses batted their lashes, whispering secrets behind delicate fans.
The scent of expensive perfume and aged whiskey hung thick and heavy in the air, like a velvet curtain draping the room in opulence and tension.
James sat at the center of it all, a glass of whiskey resting lightly between his fingers, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd with practiced ease. Around him, men nodded approvingly at his jokes, women fluttered their lashes, and the hum of celebration swelled like a wave. This was his kingdom.
Every deal brokered, every risk taken, every sleepless night spent chasing power had built this empire. Tonight, it pulsed with the intoxicating energy of victory.
He felt the weight of eyes on him. The admiration, envy, and unspoken respect that came with being at the top. Yet beneath the confident exterior, a familiar itch tickled the edges of his mind. Tonight was different. He could feel it in the air.
Then, like a shard of ice slicing through warm whiskey, a figure appeared before him. Daisy.
Daisy was shocked. She never imagined she would be serving James. And the special guest she was meant to serve was none other than James himself.
She moved with calm precision, clad in the black uniform of the staff, an apron tied neatly at her waist, her hair pinned back in a practical knot. Every step was measured and steady as if braced to face hundreds of eyes and whispers.
Her gaze was downcast, careful to avoid meeting anyone's eyes, but James felt the weight of her presence like a stone settling in his chest.
Mike, one of James's closest friends and allies, suddenly choked on his drink before letting out a mocking laugh. "Well, well, well. Look who is here,"
Mike sneered, voice dripping with cutting mockery. "The great escapee turned… waitress."
The words struck James like a cold slap. He fought the sting in his throat and kept his expression neutral.
Mike's eyes gleamed with amusement.
"I mean, seriously, who would have thought? Daisy, serving drinks at this dive." His voice was loud enough for nearby guests to catch the barb, causing a few heads to turn.
James's heart clenched. The sharp ache was familiar, bitter like the whiskey he barely tasted.
The others exchanged confused glances, their eyes flicking toward Mike as if searching for answers.
A blonde woman in a tight white dress leaned forward, curiosity laced with surprise. "Wait, who is she, Mike? Do you even know her?"
Mike shrugged, amusement and disbelief tangled in his tone. "She's his ex, if you must know. Honestly, I don't get why James would bring a girl like her as his date."
Daisy's hands trembled ever so slightly as she arranged their table and poured the drinks. Every movement was practiced and controlled, hiding a storm beneath that calm exterior.
Nearby, a woman swirling a glass of champagne leaned in, disbelief sharpening her sneer. "Wait. You're telling me James has an ex? And it's her? And now she is a waitress? Here? In this club?"
She shook her head slowly, eyes wide with disdain. "I didn't know you ever had such low taste bringing a girl like her."
The words hung heavy, slicing through the hum of the club like a blade. Heads turned, the air thickening with tension.
James's jaw tightened, a quiet storm raging beneath the surface. Anger, raw and fierce, tangled with a gnawing confusion that unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.
"She's not the Daisy I knew," he muttered under his breath, voice barely audible.
Mike rolled his eyes. "Maybe that Daisy is dead. This one is just a ghost. Broken down." He laughed cruelly, the sound echoing through the circle.
"Funny," one of his friends, Willy, added with a cruel grin.
Daisy kept her head bowed, never meeting James's gaze. She knew exactly who sat before her and how dangerous this silent confrontation could be. Yet she stepped forward, hands steady as she handed over the drinks, movements flawless and mechanical, like a robot conditioned to obey.
James watched her approach, the polite smile she wore barely masking the exhaustion lurking in her eyes. She poured his drink with a slight bow, the gesture precise but heavy with unspoken stories.
Whispers swelled around them.
"She is serving you now."
"Guess she has been trained to know her place."
Angel, one of the women nearby, raised her glass with a mocking smile. "From fiery wild girl to what? Club servant? Talk about a glow down."
She leaned in, smirk sharp. "You sure you don't want to say something to her? Show her who is boss now?"
Why is she here? The question churned inside James, relentless and gnawing. Why work in this place? Serving drinks, hiding behind that tired uniform? His fists clenched, knuckles white beneath the table.
James's jaw clenched tight, but his voice was low and calm. "No point."
Mike sneered, "Yeah, it is not like she is the girl you remember anymore."
The whispers swelled and turned into cruel laughter:
"Looks like karma finally caught up with her."
"She is just a shell."
"A fallen queen."
James's heart pounded fiercely, his empire suddenly feeling less like a throne and more like a cage. The booming party noise swelled around him, but inside, a hollow ache gnawed relentlessly.
He remembered why she had left. It was always about money, wasn't it? He had been poor then, struggling to build something better. She had wanted security, stability or something he couldn't provide. And so she walked away.
And now, he thought bitterly, she's here.
Has this been the price? The cost of walking away?