The club is called Velvet Room.
It sounds elegant and a little dangerous at the same time—and the truth is, it fits perfectly. I've officially been working here for a month now, and I still have mixed feelings when I button up my black shirt, tie my hair back, and step out the door for another night shift.
On one hand, I absolutely love it.
I love the atmosphere. I love the music that seeps into your bones. I love the way the lights play across people's faces and how every night tastes different. I love Emma and Alex, who never stop teasing me but are the first to jump in when I mess up an order or get buried under too many tables at once. I love the other waitresses—different girls with different stories—who don't look at me like I'm competition.
And that still surprises me.
At the old club, every smile hid a rivalry. Every order was a battle for tips. Every glance was a calculation. There were no friendships there—only territory and money.
Here, if I drop a glass or mess up a bill, someone steps in to help without making me feel small. Emma winks and says, "We were all rookies once." Alex takes the tray from my hands when he sees I'm overloaded. The girls crack bad jokes during breaks and drag me out for a cigarette on the back stairs.
The money is good. Really good.
The tips flow in without feeling dirty. People are polite. They ask for expensive things and pay without flinching. In a single night, I earn what used to take me days of compromises and forced smiles.
And yet. There's an "and yet" that won't let me sleep peacefully.
Because, without meaning to, I've landed right in Russian territory.
Velvet Room isn't just another high-end club downtown. It's where they come. Where they sit at the back tables, in the semi-private section, where the vodka runs clear and their silence weighs heavier than the music.
I see Nikolai almost every night.
Luckily, he ignores me.
Sometimes he greets me with nothing more than a slight lift of an eyebrow from across the room—a small, calculated gesture that tells me he's seen me, but I'm not worth the expenditure of his energy. And as strange as it sounds, I love that.
At first, I was afraid.
I thought he would cause problems. That he'd call me over to his table. That he'd put me in a position I couldn't get out of.
But no. Apparently, I'm not important enough for a man of his caliber.
Every night he's surrounded by four or five women—beautiful, immaculate, laughing a little too loudly at his jokes, touching his arm, angling for his attention. I'm just the girl who brings the glasses.
And for the first time, there's comfort in being invisible.
One evening, I saw Artem too.
He was sitting there quietly, a glass of vodka in his hand, looking out across the room without seeming to focus on anything in particular. He didn't laugh, didn't speak much—he was simply there, calm and heavy, like a shadow that doesn't need to move to be felt.
Mikhail hasn't come. But the club is full of Russians, and at Nikolai's table there are dozens of them—some I've come to recognize on sight, others are new.
Duca hasn't shown up either.
And every time I push the door open at the start of my shift, my heart gives a small, involuntary leap, as if bracing itself.
I'm afraid of the moment I'll see him.
Because I know that if Nikolai and Artem are here, it's only a matter of time before he appears too.
And I don't know what I'll do when that happens.
I don't know if I'll manage to keep my back straight and my voice steady.
I don't know if I'll be able to look at him like just another customer, take his order, and say "thank you" without something in my chest breaking apart.
Sometimes I catch myself searching for him in the crowd, even though I tell myself I don't want to see him. Other times, I pray he never shows up at all.
And I live suspended between those two desires, like on a thin wire.
Tonight, I arrive at work slightly sick.
I don't know exactly what's wrong with me, but for the past few days I've been waking up with a wave of nausea that hits out of nowhere—warm, dizzying—and sends me straight to the bathroom before I can even drink my coffee. Mornings have become the hardest part. I open my eyes and, for a few seconds, everything feels normal. Then my stomach clenches without warning and I have to run.
I barely have any appetite. Smells—especially strong ones—hit me straight in the head. Even my perfume, the one I used to adore, now feels overwhelming.
I'm tired in a strange way. Not the kind of exhaustion that follows a long shift. This is a heaviness that settles into my bones and makes me want to sleep at any hour of the day, as if someone removed my batteries and put them on charge somewhere far away from me.
I try to convince myself Elena brought home some virus from school. She had a cold last week—coughed for a few days, lay around sluggish in bed—and now maybe it's my turn to carry the baton. It makes sense, I tell myself. It's virus season. Everyone's catching something. Nothing dramatic.
If I listened to my body, I'd stay home under a blanket, window cracked open, phone on silent, waiting for this strange "cold" to pass.
But I can't afford that.
So I drag myself toward the bar, my steps slower than usual, forcing a smile onto my lips even though all I want is to lie down somewhere and close my eyes.
Emma notices the second I walk in.
"God, look at your face," she says, immediately setting her tray down on the bar. "You look like you got hit by a truck."
"Thanks for the support," I mutter, trying to smile.
Alex looks up from the bottles he's arranging.
"It's not a truck. It's clearly an orange juice hangover," he says dryly.
"Shut up, you don't even know what a hangover is," Emma nudges him with her elbow. "Alla, sit down."
Before I can protest, she settles me onto a stool behind the bar and starts massaging my temples with her cool fingers, pressing exactly where the pain is throbbing. My eyes close before I mean them to. A soft sound of relief slips out of me.
"See? I'm the talented twin," she declares triumphantly.
"Talented at talking, maybe," Alex mutters, but he's already preparing something in a tall glass.
I watch him squeeze a little lemon, add tonic water, a few mint leaves, and a splash of ginger syrup.
"No alcohol, obviously," he says, sliding the glass toward me. "Ginger helps with nausea. Or at least that's what the internet says."
"Since when are you into natural remedies?" Emma laughs.
"Since we started having coworkers who look like adorable ghosts," he replies.
I take the glass and sip slowly. The taste is fresh, lightly spicy, and—to my surprise—the nausea eases a little. My breathing steadies. The world stops spinning quite so hard.
"You're too good to me," I say softly.
"Get used to it," Emma replies, winking. "At Velvet Room, we don't let our people fall."
It looks like a serious party tonight. From the very beginning, waves of sharply dressed guests stream in—men in perfectly tailored suits, women in dresses that shimmer subtly under the club's low lights, expensive perfumes blending in the air to create that unmistakable scent of old money and quiet power.
"One of their big shots is announcing his engagement," Emma tells me over the bar, raising her voice to compete with the music. "It's going to be a long night."
Her eyes shine with excitement.
"From experience, tomorrow we'll each be a few thousand richer," she adds, leaning in conspiratorially. "When these people celebrate, they don't look at the tip."
Alex snorts.
"True. They only look at the most expensive bottles."
"And at me," Emma adds theatrically.
"Especially at you," he confirms dryly.
I laugh, even though my stomach still hasn't completely settled.
"So let's do this," Emma says, clapping her hands sharply. "Let tonight be legendary."
And we get to work.
I take the orders, they make them, I deliver them—a constant back-and-forth that makes me dizzy but keeps me present, anchored in the moment. Tables fill up. Glasses empty. Laughter rises in volume. The music pulses harder and harder. I keep my back straight, smile, jot things down quickly, slip between bodies with the tray raised above their heads, dodging hurried elbows and unsteady heels.
In the back section, the table reserved for the engagement party practically glows—champagne bottles uncorked one after another, glasses clinking loudly, cheers that drown out the DJ's beat. The couple announcing their engagement keeps everyone waiting, but that doesn't stop the others from celebrating in advance.
Tips pile quickly into the pocket of my apron—folded bills, little notes scribbled with "thank you," appreciative glances. I gather them all without pausing.
For a few hours, I forget that I feel sick.
Adrenaline keeps the nausea at bay. The exhaustion retreats somewhere into the background, leaving behind an almost feverish energy. I move faster, more confidently, and every now and then Emma throws me a quick "bravo" when I manage to juggle three tables at once.
"See?" she shouts over the bar. "Told you you've got it in you!"
"Don't inflate her ego," Alex cuts in. "She'll leave us for the competition."
"I've got nowhere to go," I reply with a laugh, though somewhere inside I know that's not entirely true.
The night stretches out before us like a promise—exhausting and profitable.
And for the moment, all that matters is that I'm here, that I'm working, that I'm part of something that doesn't make me feel dirty.
The rest can wait.
But it doesn't.
At some point, the music shifts abruptly, and the crowd erupts—cheers and whistles rising from the center of the room and rolling all the way to the bar. It's the kind of reaction that leaves no room for doubt.
They've arrived.
I don't see them at first. I'm short, and these Russians all seem cut from the same tall, broad-shouldered mold. Phones go up. Glasses lift. Arms rise. I catch only fragments of silhouettes between heads.
"That's it, the stars have arrived!" Emma shouts, thrilled.
I grab my tray out of reflex and move closer to the table reserved for the couple, just in case they'll need me. Better to be nearby than summoned with a sharp snap of fingers.
The crowd parts almost comically, like in those slow-motion movie scenes. People step aside, laughing, applauding. I take one step forward just as the corridor opens completely.
And suddenly I'm standing face to face with them.
With Duca.
And Yelena.
For a second, the world stops.
He is as beautiful as ever—dark-haired, tall, shoulders squared, those blue eyes that seem to see straight through you, even when they shouldn't. The black suit fits him flawlessly, and the way he walks says, without words, that he belongs here.
Beside him, Yelena looks like a porcelain blonde doll—hair perfectly arranged, a dress so short and glittering it seems painted onto her body rather than worn. She holds his arm with quiet certainty, as if that is exactly where she is meant to be.
And then I understand.
The engagement.
One of their big shots.
It wasn't just anyone.
It was him.
The realization hits me with such brutal force that the air empties from my lungs. I'm left suspended between one breath and the next, unable to fully process what I'm seeing: Duca is marrying Yelena. Duca is choosing her. Duca is moving forward. And I remain behind—like a footnote in a story he decided to close.
All the madness of the night—the music vibrating in my chest, the adrenaline that had kept me upright and functioning, the illusion that I'd escaped and could finally breathe without it hurting—crashes over me in one dizzying wave that sweeps me off my feet and steals my balance.
His eyes find mine in the crowd. Inevitably. As if he knew exactly where to look.
And in his gaze I see genuine shock—a brief crack in that mask of control he always wears.
I see his jaw tighten, the muscles in his face pulling taut in a visible effort to remain composed, and for a split second I almost believe that this moment is as unexpected for him as it is for me.
Yelena, on the other hand, looks at me directly, without blinking, with a slow smile that doesn't even attempt to hide itself. A full, certain, triumphant smile—the smile of a woman who knows she has won.
And right then, when all those eyes seem to press down on me at once, my already fragile stomach gives out without asking my permission.
I don't have time to say anything. I don't have time to apologize. I don't even manage to turn away or step back.
A hot, violent wave surges up from deep inside me and, before I can control my body or gather what little dignity I have left, I vomit straight onto her glittering dress—right in front of them, in front of everyone.
A collective murmur ripples through the crowd like a shockwave. The sound of glasses abruptly stopping mid-clink reaches my ears, distorted and far away.
The tray slips from my hand and hits the floor with a dull thud that sounds as though it's coming from another room.
I hear someone shout. I hear a whispered "Oh my God" somewhere close by. But everything turns blurry, distant.
The last thing I see clearly is Duca's face—white, tense, eyes locked on me—and Yelena's expression, frozen between horror and pure fury.
Then the lights melt into a smear of color.
And I fall.
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