Time always seemed to move faster when I wanted it to slow down.
Kelly and I were setting up the bar for the night, restocking bottles and wiping down counters, when she finally spoke.
"You know you don't have to do this."
I exhaled slowly. "Kelly, please," I sighed. "Don't make me overthink it. Not now."
She watched me for a moment, then shook her head. "If you say so." After a pause, she added gently, "You should get ready. The guests will be here in a few hours. Go."
"Thank you, Kells," I said quietly.
She gave me a small smile, but her eyes were still worried.
I headed toward the staff changing room tucked behind the storage area—a narrow space with lockers, a mirror cracked at the corner, and harsh fluorescent lighting that showed you things you'd rather not see. I changed quickly, my movements careful, deliberate.
The dress was already laid out.
Simple. Black. Nothing flashy.
I slipped it on, the fabric cool against my skin as it settled into place. It hugged my waist softly, fell just above my knees, and revealed only what it had to. Thin straps rested on my shoulders, delicate enough to make me feel exposed without actually showing much.
I stared at my reflection for a moment.
This wasn't a dress meant to invite.
It was a dress meant to endure.
I fixed my hair, added just enough makeup to look awake, then took one last breath before leaving the room and making my way upstairs.
The upstairs felt like a different world.
The moment I stepped off the last stair, the noise from the bar below faded into a dull echo, like it had been sealed behind thick walls. The air here was cooler, cleaner—no sweat, no spilled alcohol. Just the faint scent of cologne and polished wood.
A small lounge opened up before me, intimate and deliberate. Low leather chairs were arranged around a glass table, a single lamp casting a soft amber glow over the space.
Everything looked expensive but restrained, as if designed for people who valued privacy over excess.
This wasn't a place meant for crowds.
It was meant for waiting.
Beyond the lounge were two doors, facing each other across the narrow corridor. Identical. Dark wood. No signs, no names—just discreet brass numbers near the handles. Both doors were closed.
Both rooms were in use tonight.
The silence pressed in on me as I stood there, suddenly too aware of my breathing, the soft click of my heels against the floor. Even the walls seemed to absorb sound, making the space feel smaller… closer.
This was where the rules changed.
Downstairs, I was just another bartender. Another girl blending into the noise.
Up here, I was expected to be something else entirely.
I swallowed hard, straightened my shoulders, and took a step forward towards the room by the left.
There was no turning back now.
Before I could reach for the handle, a familiar voice stopped me.
"Arielle."
I turned to see Leo standing a few steps behind me, jacket shrugged loosely over his shoulders, expression unreadable.
Up here, he didn't look like the bar manager everyone joked with downstairs. He looked sharper. More composed.Like a man who knew exactly what this place was for.
He glanced briefly at the closed doors, then back at me. "You don't have to force anything," he said calmly. "You set the pace. If at any point you feel uncomfortable, you walk out. No explanations."
I nodded, though my throat felt tight.
"This isn't downstairs," he continued.
"No scenes. No pressure. He'll expect discretion, not desperation." His eyes softened slightly.
"And you're not expected to pretend you're someone you're not."
I let out a shaky breath. "Okay."
Leo hesitated, then added, quieter this time, "If this were about anything else, I'd tell you to go home. I'd lend you the money myself." A pause. "But I know you wouldn't take it."
I looked down, fingers curling into my palms.
"Just remember," he said gently, stepping aside, "you're still in control. Don't forget that."
He gave me a small nod—permission, reassurance, warning—all wrapped into one.
I turned back to the door.
And this time, when I reached for the handle, there was no one left to stop me.
I pushed the door open.
The room hit me differently this time. Before, I'd only been here briefly, tidying up, slipping in and out unnoticed.
Now, every shadow seemed heavier, the dim amber light warmer, the quiet thicker. The bed looked too perfect. The armchair, the table, the bottle of whiskey—everything felt deliberate, designed to make you notice, to make you wait.
I stepped inside, heels clicking softly, heart hammering. This wasn't a cleaning shift. This was something else entirely.
I reached for the door before I could change my mind.
The handle felt cool beneath my fingers as I pushed it open and stepped inside, closing it softly behind me. The click of the lock echoed louder than it should have.
The room was dimly lit, smaller than the lounge but more intimate. Warm light spilled from wall lamps, casting a soft glow over dark wooden floors and carefully chosen furniture.
A large bed sat neatly made against one wall, the sheets smooth and untouched, almost too perfect. Across from it was a single armchair beside a low table, a bottle of whiskey resting there with two glasses.
Waiting.
The air smelled faintly of cologne and something sharp, expensive. It didn't feel like a hotel room. It felt like a decision room.
I took a few steps inside, my heels barely making a sound, then stopped near the edge of the bed. My hands twisted together before I realized I was doing it. I forced myself to let them fall to my sides.
This was it.
I could still leave. Walk back out. Pretend this never happened.
But then I thought of my mother—of hospital walls and quiet machines, of unpaid bills stacked neatly on the kitchen counter. I thought of Nurse Kate's careful voice and the way fear had settled into my chest that morning.
My stomach tightened.
Was this really the only way?
I swallowed hard, drawing in a slow breath, trying to steady myself. I wasn't here because I wanted to be. I was here because I had no choice left that didn't end with losing everything.
The faint sound of movement outside the door made my heart stutter.
Time was up.
I straightened my shoulders, bracing myself for the moment the door would open—knowing that once it did, there would be no going back.