Maya's POV
"You're blocking the champagne tower."
I looked up from adjusting my catering apron to find a woman in silk glaring at me as if I had insulted her ancestors. Her diamond necklace caught the chandelier light, scattering rainbows across her collarbones. That necklace probably cost more than two years of my rent.
"Sorry." I pressed myself against the gilded mirror behind me, trying to disappear into the wallpaper.
She swept past without another glance, leaving behind a perfume so expensive it made my throat tighten. I watched her rejoin the other guests, all of them drifting through the Hampton estate's ballroom like exotic birds. Everything sparkled. The people, the decorations, even the champagne tower I had apparently offended.
I did not sparkle. I was the help. Black pants, a white shirt long past its best days, and dark hair pulled into a bun so tight my scalp ached. No jewelry, only the small silver studs my mother gave me for my quinceañera, back when we still had money for celebrations.
My phone buzzed at my hip. I pulled it out, angling the screen away from the party.
Marcus: How's life among the rich and famous? Me: Exhausting. How are you feeling? Marcus: Tired. Dialysis was rough today. But I'm okay. Don't worry about me. Make that money.
The words blurred before I blinked hard and typed back: Love you. Call if you need anything.
Marcus was twenty-four and should not have been on dialysis three times a week. He should not have been waiting for a kidney while his body slowly gave up. And I should not have been serving champagne to people who spent more on their shoes than we needed for his medical bills.
"Torres!" My manager's voice cut through the string quartet. "Terrace. Now."
I grabbed a tray of caviar toasts and headed for the French doors. The October evening wrapped around me like a warm shawl as I stepped outside. Paper lanterns swayed overhead, their light brushing over clusters of guests murmuring about stock portfolios, vacation homes, and which charity gala served the best champagne.
I moved among them like a ghost, offering the tray with a smile that did not belong to me. They took the food without looking. To them, I was furniture. Useful, but invisible.
"No, thank you."
The voice drew me around. A man stood at the terrace's edge, leaning on the balustrade as if he needed it to stay upright. He was looking straight at me. Actually seeing me. That alone made my heart stumble.
"The caviar," he said, gesturing to my tray. "I'm not a fan."
"Oh." Heat crept up my neck. "Right. Of course."
I started to leave, but he spoke again.
"How much longer do you have to work tonight?"
I stopped. Guests did not ask questions like that. They did not acknowledge that I had shifts or a life beyond serving them.
"Another five hours," I said before I could stop myself.
"That's rough." He turned back to the garden. His shoulders were tense beneath his tailored suit, as if the fabric itself were strangling him. "I've been here two hours and already feel trapped."
I should have walked away. My manager would notice if I lingered. But something in his voice, that bone-deep weariness, matched something in me.
"Not a fan of weddings?" I asked.
"Not a fan of performing." He looked at me then, eyes the color of storm clouds. "That's what this is, isn't it? Everyone playing their role. The happy couple, the proud families, the successful friends. All of us pretending we are exactly who we are supposed to be."
My breath caught. I looked out at the perfect garden, the perfect hedges, and the perfect statues. "I wouldn't know. I'm just here to serve the champagne."
"That's its own kind of performance." His voice softened. "Smiling when you're tired. Being invisible when you are standing right there. Pretending this is normal."
Something shifted in my chest, a locked door creaking open. I turned to look at him properly. Mid-thirties, dark hair needing a trim, an expensive suit that did not quite fit his energy. Handsome, but not in a practiced way. Real. Out of place, like me.
"I should get back to work." But my feet stayed planted.
"Of course. I didn't mean to keep you."
I nodded and walked back inside. My skin tingled all the way, as if his gaze were still on me. I told myself it meant nothing, just a lonely guest making small talk. I would forget about him before the night ended.
But thirty minutes later, when I returned to the terrace with more champagne, he was still there. Still alone. He was still staring at the garden like he was searching for a way out.
Our eyes met across the crowd. He smiled, small and sad, and something restless inside me answered.
I served a circle of women dissecting someone's divorce with brittle laughter, then found myself drifting back toward the balustrade. The man was gone. A hollow disappointment opened in my stomach.
"Looking for someone?"
I jumped. He stood behind me, holding two glasses of champagne.
"I thought you might want one," he said. "You've been serving everyone else all night."
"I can't. I'm working." But I was staring at that glass like it held air.
"Take a break. Just five minutes. I won't tell your boss."
Every rational thought screamed no, but my hand reached for the glass anyway. His fingers brushed mine, and electricity shot up my arm.
"Five minutes," I said.
We stood side by side, sipping champagne, watching the party. Six inches of space between us. It felt charged.
"I'm James," he said. "Maya." "Maya," he repeated, tasting the sound. "That's beautiful." "It's just a name." "Nothing is just anything," he said. "Everything means something, even if we don't know what yet."
I should have asked who he was. But I did not want to break the quiet.
"Do you ever feel like you are living someone else's life?" he asked.
The question hit hard. I thought about my paintings collecting dust, my failed gallery show, the stack of unpaid bills, and my brother hooked to a machine that kept him alive.
"Every day," I whispered.
James nodded as if he had expected that. He set his glass down and held out his hand.
"Do you want to leave?"
I stared at it. This was insane. I did not know him. I needed this job. Four more hours left.
But Marcus was sick. My mother was working nights. I was trapped in a loop with no exit. And this man was looking at me like I mattered.
I took his hand.
We walked through the garden without speaking. His palm was warm, his grip steady. My heart pounded so loudly I thought he must hear it. We reached the gate that led to the beach, and he pushed it open.
The sand was still warm from the sun. The ocean stretched endless and dark. Something inside me lifted, as if I could finally breathe.
James turned toward me, still holding my hand. "I should tell you something," he said quietly. I waited. My pulse drummed in my ears. "I'm not who you think I am."
The words hung there, heavy. Every instinct screamed for me to pull away, ask questions, and go back.
But his hand was warm, and his eyes held mine with an intensity that made me feel real. "I don't think you're anyone," I said. "We just met."
Something flickered across his face. Relief or sadness, I could not tell. "Then maybe we can be no one together. Just for tonight."
I knew it was a mistake. Tomorrow would bring bills and guilt and the same hard life. But tomorrow was not here yet.
"Just for tonight," I said.
James smiled, and it changed him. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small wooden box. Inside lay a silver crane, delicate and perfect.
"I took it from the wedding favors," he admitted. "I want you to have it."
I stared at it. Accepting felt dangerous. "Why?" He closed my fingers around the box. His hand covered mine completely, heat radiating through the wood. "Because something about tonight feels important. And I want you to remember it."
My throat tightened. "What's really going on?" For a moment, fear flashed in his eyes. Then it was gone. "Does it matter? Right now, does anything matter except that we're here?"
The answer should have been yes. Everything else should have mattered. But standing on that beach with his hand over mine and the silver crane between us, I could not remember why.
"No," I whispered. "Nothing else matters."
James leaned close, his breath warm against my ear. "Then let's make tonight count."
He stepped back, eyes searching mine. I saw my own hunger reflected there. I nodded.
James smiled and took my hand, leading me down the beach. I followed, the wooden box pressed to my chest, my pulse wild.
Behind us, the wedding carried on. My manager would notice. There would be consequences.
I did not look back.
I did not see the man in the shadows of the garden, phone to his ear, saying three quiet words into the darkness:
"She took the bait."