Millie startles, tearing her gaze from the window, her cheeks flushing a deep pink. “Damn, sorry, Vi,” she says with a wistful sigh. “But you can’t deny the man issmoking.”
“You know,” I muse, chin in my hand, stirring my coffee, “you’re probably exactly his type.”
Millie blinks, taken aback. “Who, Chase?”
I nod, leaning back in my chair. “Yeah, you know—long legs, glossy hair, that whole glamor-puss thing you’ve got going on.”
“Oh, please. Chase doesn’t even know I exist. Besides,” she leans forward with a conspiratorial smile, “I’d kill for your style, Violet.”
I blink, surprised. “My style?”
“Yeah! You’re like... aParisienne girlin one of those effortlessly chic Instagram reels. The short pleated skirts, the chunky platforms, and oversized sweaters. It’s like you just walked out of some indie film where the main character falls in love with a painter. You know, all cute, but with that edge.”
I laugh, reaching up to tuck my hair behind my ear; my honey-blonde hair falls past my jawline, spilling down my back. “Well, I’m definitely not falling in love with a painter, so I guess the look’s wasted.”
Millie shakes her head, grinning. “No way. It’s cool, it’syou,and it’s not trying too hard. That’s why it works.”
“Wow, you can tell you work in marketing,” I say with a grin. “You just pulled together an entire ad campaign like it was nothing. Maybe I should hire you to do my PR.”
I laugh, though the sound seems hollow, a fleeting distraction from the dread gnawing at me ever since Chase fired me. For a moment, it fades, but like a bad penny, it resurfaces—insistent and heavy. The clock is ticking and sitting here drinking coffee won’t magically land me a new job. I need to get home and start hustling.
“I should go now, Millie,” I say, draining the last drop of coffee. “Gracie will wonder where I am.” I haul myself to my feet, my shoulders slumped as I pull my jacket on. It almost feels like I’m in the middle of a movie shoot, and any second now, the director will shout cut.
“Okay, Vi,” Millie says, worry in her eyes. “I’ll put some feelers out for you in other tech companies. You’ll find something soon, I’m sure of it.”
“Well, there’s always that Parisienne girl indie shoot,” I wink, trying to keep things light, swallowing back the giant lump in my throat.
“Yep, you’re a shoo-in for that. Call me tomorrow, okay?”
“Will do.” I blow her a kiss, turning to the door.
I make the short walk to the subway in a daze, my thoughts tangled in a thousand unanswered questions. I need to pull myself together and come up with a plan—fast. That job wasn’t just a career; it was our lifeline. For me and my eighteen-year-old sister, Gracie, it was everything.
The last couple of years have been an unrelenting nightmare. Mom finally lost her battle with cancer, leaving a void so vast it seems the house will never seem full again. But her absence isn’t the only thing she left behind—there’s also the crushing mountain of medical debt that swallowed up what little stability we had.
And Dad? He’s no help. He disappeared the moment things got tough, leaving for another woman not long after Mom got sick. I can’t decide what’s worse—his timing or the fact that I’m not even surprised anymore. It’s another reason I’ve sworn off relationships for good.
My throat burns with nausea as I claim the final seat. I shut my eyes, wringing my hands as the subway rattles along the tracks, the rhythmic sound strangely soothing. One thing is certain—I can’t tell Gracie I’ve lost my job. She’s only just found her footing again, shaking off the grief that had drained the light from her.
She’s back to hanging out with her friends, no longer retreating to her room like the world outside doesn’t exist. Her passion for soccer has returned, playing every spare moment she can. She’s even been accepted for a soccer scholarship at UCLA starting in the fall.
And I made a promise to Mom as I sat by her side, watching her slip away. To take care of Gracie, no matter what. I can’t break that promise. I can’t let her down.
By the time I’m putting the key to lock in our modest apartment in Sunnyside, Queens, I’ve formulated a skeleton of a plan. I kick my heels off, calling, “Gracie, I’m home.” But there’s silence. Then I remember her extra soccer practice. There’s a bigtournament coming up, and it’s all she can talk about. But she’s burning through cleats like nobody’s business, so I need cash, fast.
I pull out my phone to text my boss, Sonny. He’s been badgering me to work more hours, but until today, it’s not been possible. To make up for my entry-level salary at Knightwell, I spend my weekends bartending at the Velvet Lounge on the Upper East Side. It’s an exclusive, private-membership gentlemen’s club catering to the disgustingly wealthy. Power players flock there to network, unwind, and seal high-stakes deals over aged whiskey and cigar smoke. But despite its polished veneer, the club isn’t without its seedy underbelly.
I’ve seen doormen pocket bribes to look the other way when certain clients leave with cocktail waitresses. On the flip side, I’ve seen waitresses fired without hesitation when caught. Thankfully, I’m behind the bar—separated from the leering stares and occasional wandering hands by a thick slab of glossy, imported mahogany.
The job isn’t glamorous, but the tips are generous enough to keep me coming back. I’ve even kept a notebook filled with details about the regulars—everything from their drink orders and favorite basketball team to the ones who prefer to be left alone—those guys tip the best.
The Velvet Lounge wasn’t exactly part of my dream career path, but right now, it’s my safety net.
When my phone buzzes with a reply from Sonny, the knot in my stomach loosens.
“Hell yeah, we need you Friday night. You in?”
I fire back a quick Yes, relief washing over me. At least I’ll make rent this month.
