Rhea POV:
So I spent the rest of the afternoon doing what any self-respecting ex-employee would do: seat-munching cookies, angrily Googling the jerk who got me fired, and inventing particularly creative insults for him. Lucy — bless her nosy little heart — sidled up and peered over my shoulder. She stopped mid-sip. "Ooh," she said, delighted. "He's hot."
She scrolled past his LinkedIn and started swooning. Really? The guy had looks. Fine. He had the kind of face that made you forget words for a second. But looks are the appetizer; rudeness is the whole, indigestible main course. I had no appetite left.
I dug for scandal like a raccoon in someone else's trash—anything to bury him with. Nothing. Clean slate. Charitable boards, well-placed photos, speeches about community, the whole PR package. If he had skeletons, they were in climate‑controlled closets. Annoying. Infuriating. Perfect PR people meant perfect publicness. Of course.
Then I saw it. He was on the guest list—front-row guest list—for an LBJ Company launch party this friday. The kind of party that smelled like money and mint juleps and people pretending their designer shoes were comfortable. A gala. A whole fortress of velvet ropes and velvet egos. My pulse did an ugly little dance. This was an opportunity. Not to dig dirt—his slate was too clean for that—but to make him look ridiculous in front of the people who mattered to him. To puncture his little balloon of self-importance in public. Show the world the man behind the suit: small, petulant, soggy with entitlement.
"Wicked?" Lucy asked, knowing my evil look and looking at me like I'd suggested shoplifting candy.
"Mission: Operation Scandalize the Big Shot," I said, because dramatic codenames make everything more satisfying. "I can't go as a guest — no dress, no RSVP, no entry. But a waitress? Staff get in. Staff blend in."
Lucy's eyes glittered. "You're going to be the waitress who wrecks his night."
"Exactly." I grinned, feeling the first warm curl of vindictive joy. Being poor and fired and humiliated will do strange things to your moral compass. It turns out my went-to pieces compass points straight to 'creative revenge.' I wasn't exactly a saint before — I read steamy romance novels and cried over fictional makeouts — but I'd never been a villain. Tonight, that didn't matter.
Lucy called me wicked and delightful, then offered to do my hair and makeup. "You're not going in looking like a librarian who was thrown in the ocean," she declared, already pulling out contour palettes and hairspray like a general mustering troops. "We're going incognito glam. I'll make you unrecognizable in the most fabulous way."
"We?" I asked.
"Yes, we. I'm your wingwoman-slash-makeup-ninja. Since you are not going as a guest—too expensive—and you don't have connections to storm the velvet rope. Going as staff is the best idea. A waiter, a caterer, something with a tray and a name tag. Lower visibility, higher mobility. And you, my dear, will find your moment."
Lucy insisted on doing my hair and makeup. "We're not making you pretty," she said as she pinned my bangs. "We're making you unrecognizable." Which, translated, meant: hide the face that Cortez remembered and let fate do the rest. I let her, because if you're staging a covert op you want an ally with tweezers and a deluded sense of theater.
I'd planned a harmless humiliation — nothing violent, nothing illegal, just painfully public and deliciously awkward.
We mapped it: Lucy would glam me up beyond recognition, teach me a few waiter moves so I didn't walk backwards into a chandelier, and hand me a fake name tag that read "Rhea—Catering." She'd text me cues from the couch like a director feeding lines to an actor.
"You sure?" Lucy asked, lipstick poised like a tiny red flag.
"Positive," I said. "When he's running to the bathroom to recover his dignity, I'll be at the bar, smiling and taking orders." I added, because bravado needed a soundtrack, "And I'll have the camera rolling."
I tried my best villain laugh and failed spectacularly; it came out more like a wheeze. Lucy burst out laughing, which was exactly what I needed. Even the best-laid revenge plans should come with a friend who thinks you're ridiculous.
So that was the plan: get in as staff, blend into the background, make him regret his arrogance — publicly, loudly, and briefly — and leave the rest to karma and bad timing. If the night went exactly as I imagined, Cortez would be the one apologizing in the morning papers while I slipped out the back with my dignity intact and my cookies still in my bag.
If not… well, at least Lucy had promised to bail me out. And a girl can only cause so much chaos before she needs a getaway driver.
Operation Scandalize: pending. Emotion: 99% furious, 1% gleeful. I was dangerously close to planning a victory lap.
******
We made a war plan while Lucy turned my living room into a salon. She called it 'mission: plausible' and supplied an alarmingly realistic hair bun.
"You nervous?" she asked, brushing a stray strand into place.
"Nervous is too small a word," I admitted. "I'm excited in the way you are before you hit 'send' on a text to an ex. That panicked, giddy, catastrophic kind of excited."
"Good. You need a little happy-sad adrenaline. It looks great on you."
Lucy transformed me from drowned‑library‑girl into someone who belonged in magazines: hair teased into a loose, seductive wave that suggested I'd given up trying to be invisible, makeup that made my eyes say "don't mess with me," and a borrowed black dress that hugged in all the agreeable places but allowed me to move. I felt like a spy in stilettos. Lucy kissed the bridge of my nose and handed me a tray—two champagne flutes, one small plate.
"Remember," she said, fierce. "You're not there to punch him. You're there to expose him. Publicly. Quietly. Brilliantly."
At eight-thirty the next night, I was on the LBJ lot checking in with temporary staff. They entered my name with the disinterested flick of a screen and handed me a headset that made me look like I knew what I was doing. I answered the way a person who has practiced being invisible appreciates: softly, with a smile that refused to be grateful. Lucy had recorded a fifteen-second message of encouragement and sent it to me with a little heart emoji that made my stomach relax, at least for a moment.
I slipped into the venue like a shadow with gloss. The foyer smelled of lilies and hand sanitizer. The guests were a parade of talking headshots—ministers of finance, influencers practicing their sympathetic smiles, the kind of people who smiled at you through their teeth. There he was: Mr. Cortez, surrounded by an orbit of yes‑men, drink in hand, already playing the role of benevolent magnate. He looked perfect. Annoying to the point of physical pain. He even had a little silver pocket square that screamed "I donate to causes."
The room was a glittering ocean of expensive fabrics and practiced laughter. Glass clinked. Bottles sparkled. Cameras sat like little black frogs on the edges of tables, catching every reflection. Cortez was a constellation at the far end: immaculate, surrounded by people who bowed slightly when he said anything clever. He looked better in motion than the internet photos—predatory charisma wrapped in tailored wool.
I stayed small, a shadow with a tray, a moving instrument. Servers blend into the background until someone needs something. You can stand within a speaker's orbit and no one notices you unless you speak or spill. I didn't want to spill. I wanted to listen.
You learn secrets as staff.