I pour.
The champagne foams up obediently, bubbles racing to the surface like they have somewhere better to be. I keep my face neutral, my irritation buried deep and sharp. This is the job. This is the disguise. I finish the pour, nod once, and move on.
Hartley is alone now.
Not fully. Never fully. But the ring around him has loosened just enough. He takes another sip, glancing over the room like he’s shopping for attention.
Now.
I step into his space, bottle angled over his glass, posture perfect.
“Mr. Hartley,” I say quietly.
He looks at me, eyes flicking from the bottle to my face. He nods, already smiling, the kind of smile that assumes admiration is about to follow.
It doesn’t.
The sound comes from my right. A sharp, violent clatter that doesn’t belong in a room like this.
Glass shatters.
Someone shouts.
Security moves before the echo finishes bouncing off the walls. Hartley is yanked backward, his glass forgotten, his body shielded as men close ranks around him. Thebubble compresses and hardens, impenetrable in less than a second.
My moment is gone.
I pivot instinctively, scanning for the source, and my stomach drops.
Alejandro is on the floor.
His tray lying half a foot away like it’s been flung aside. Champagne and orange juice spread across the carpet in a bright, obscene spill. Another server stands frozen nearby, her tray of fresh mimosas tipped, two glasses shattered at her feet.
Alejandro looks up at me.
For a heartbeat, I can’t read his expression.
Pain, maybe. Surprise. Or something else entirely. Something that looks uncomfortably like satisfaction. Like the quiet relief of someone who has successfully stopped something without having to say why.
Then it’s gone, smoothed away behind his usual control.
Staff flood the space instantly, apologies already tumbling out of mouths that weren’t involved. Someone kneels to help him up. Someone else is already blotting the carpet like this is a wine spill at a wedding and not a perfectly timed intervention.
I don’t move.
I don’t look at Hartley being hustled away.
I look at Alejandro.
This wasn’t clumsy. It wasn’t random. The timing is too perfect, the chaos too contained. He didn’t just fall. He fellthere.Then. Right as I was about to speak.
He didn’t need to touch me to stop me.
That’s the part that makes my blood gocold.
The manager barrels in, clipboard in hand, face tight with performative calm. Her voice cuts through the murmurs like a knife through silk.
“Apologies, ladies and gentlemen. Please,” she says brightly, already gesturing toward the double doors at the far end of the room. They’re opening wide, staff guiding guests with practiced efficiency. “Let’s move into the brunch hall. You all look very hungry.”
