Climbing the stairs with the tray of drinks in her hands was difficult enough—made worse by the black heels she had on.
Yet Isadora's panic only truly began after she was let through the small, gated, and guarded way that led into the VIP lounge.
You can do this! she whispered to herself again, but this time even the words trembled in fear. Her wide eyes took in the room, dazzled by opulence and lavishness like she had never seen before.
The men and women inside wore clothes so fine that the material itself spoke volumes. Their movements—walking, smiling, speaking in hushed tones—were all refined. Even on the section of the lounge where dancing was permitted, they moved with grace and elegance so striking that for a moment Isadora lost herself just watching.
A sharp hiss snapped her back. A passing waitress threw a glare her way before moving on to serve patrons who beckoned to her.
Instantly, Isadora focused on her own task. She mimicked the same, doing her best not to make mistakes or meet anyone's eyes. She simply pushed her tray forward whenever called upon, allowing guests to take whichever drink they wanted.
Before long, she realized she needed to keep moving—circling the room, careful not to disturb anyone, before returning to change out empty or unwanted glasses for fresh ones.
And that was when it happened.
Subconsciously, she had been drifting closer and closer to where he sat. She couldn't lie to herself—she was drawn to him.
Lorenzo Rocheto. Even his name sounded elegant, and his appearance was another blow to her already rattled heart.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a sharp, defined jawline. His short, wheat-blond hair was swept neatly back, emphasizing the icy blue eyes that pierced like a direct blade.
Isadora's blush deepened as she moved nearer, forgetting every tip LLara had crammed into her ears. There was only the flutter in her chest and the desperate, almost foolish desire for him to notice her. To look at her. To see her.
Her mind raced with images pulled straight from the romance novels she had devoured—how it would feel if his gaze met hers, if he fell utterly and hopelessly in love at first sight. How he might deny it at first, pretend otherwise, only to be unable to resist chasing her with desperation.
Her heart thumped harder just imagining it.
And fate, it seemed, was kind—for Lorenzo, seated with a few women at his table, suddenly looked up. His eyes found hers. He gestured toward her with his hand.
Sky-blue eyes locked onto Isadora's brown ones. She froze.
There was something in his cold yet strangely gentle demeanor that nearly stole her breath. She almost hyperventilated under that piercing gaze.
For a single, suspended moment, time seemed to stop. Slowly, she began walking toward him, unable to tear her gaze away even as her heart pounded violently in her chest.
Behind the fear, excitement bloomed. He had noticed her. Truly noticed her. The butterflies in her stomach swarmed as she took another step forward—
—and then everything came crashing down.
The same waitress who had glared at her earlier suddenly bulldozed past, hard enough to unsteady the tray in Isadora's hands. Without hesitation, the woman swooped forward to Lorenzo, presenting her tray before him.
Isadora faltered, trying desperately to steady hers—but failed.
Glasses toppled. Yellow, red, orange liquids cascaded across her white shirt, soaking into her clothes as gasps rippled through the lounge.
"Careless!"
"More capable people need to be hired!"
"Ahhh! I think a bit spilled on me! I'm going to sue her!"
Disgust, annoyance, and mocking laughter swirled around her.
Isadora trembled, fighting to keep her tears from spilling even as her eyes blurred with them. The tray clattered to the floor. She scrambled to pick it up, trying to gather the shards of broken glass—only to feel a hand seize her and drag her quickly aside.
Her head dropped instantly, braced for insults and humiliation. But instead, a soft whisper met her ears as something small was pressed into her hand.
"I saw what happened. Cynthia is a nasty bitch," a young woman murmured, herself dressed in a waitress uniform.
"The cleaners will handle this—but you need to get changed," she continued quickly. Isadora, still shaking, lifted her reddened eyes to meet hers.
"Take the card!" the girl urged, before shouts for more drinks pulled her attention elsewhere. Speaking even faster now, she added, "Go to room 315! There are extra shirts in the wardrobe. It's an open secret—security won't crucify you."
And just like that, she was gone—vanishing back into the crowd, pointing once at the side door that led out of the bar and giving Isadora a flash of direction toward the elevators.
Isadora didn't hesitate. She couldn't. Humiliation burned in her chest, shame hot in her veins. All she wanted was to disappear.
She hurried into the elevator, clutching the card like a lifeline, repeating the instructions under her breath.
"Room 513," she mumbled through trembling lips, tears beginning to fall freely now.
She had ruined everything. Her one chance—shattered. Going back down there wouldn't fix it. Her heart ached as she remembered Lorenzo's cold glance in that single moment of disaster.
I'm so stupid! I'm so stupid! she berated herself, clenching her fists as if to force the tears to stop.
The stench of spilled drinks clung to her like a second skin.
When the elevator doors opened at the topmost floor, the guards barely spared her a look before ignoring her completely.
She stumbled down the hall, straight toward the numbered door, card in hand. All she wanted now was to slip inside, hide, and never emerge—not until Lorenzo was long gone.
Careful, she ensured that it was the right room; the last thing she wanted to do was make a mistake and end up making a bigger fool of herself than she already had.
Her chest tight with dread, she pressed the card against the sensor.
Beep.
Error!