"Good evening, miss."
I blink at him, momentarily stunned by the lack of confrontation. I thought for sure I’d be ushered through some back door for workers. "Thank you."
The lobby swallows me whole.
The air smells like money when I step inside. That particular blend of fresh flowers and expensive cologne and the quiet confidence of people who have never worried about where their next meal is coming from. It settles into my lungs like a reminder of everything I'm not, everything I'll never be.
I keep my shoulders straight and my chin up and walk toward the elevators like I have every right to be here. Like my heart isn't trying to beat its way out of my chest. Like I'm not one wrong glance away from being escorted out by security.
The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime, and I step inside before I can talk myself out of it.
The walls are mirrored, and I'm confronted by my reflection from every angle. I look like exactly what I am: a desperate woman about to do something desperate.
The doors start to close, but a manicured hand shoots through the gap and they slide back open.
Two women step into the elevator, followed by a man who looks like he stepped out of a magazine advertisement for obscenely expensive watches. The women are draped in silk that flows like water over their slender frames, diamonds glittering at their throats and ears and wrists. Their perfume fills the small space with something floral and undoubtedly French, the kind of scent that costs more per ounce than I make in a week.
One of them presses the button for the Scarlet Thorn floor, her movements languid and unhurried. The confidence of a woman who has never been denied anything in her life.
Then her gaze slides to me.
I feel her eyes rake over my glasses, polo shirt, and dark jeans. She is wearing a scowl when her eyes meet mine again and I swear it’s from my complete and utter lack of diamonds, silk or anything else that suggests I belong in the same elevator as them. Her perfectly sculpted eyebrow arches just slightly, a microexpression of disdain so subtle it could almost be imagined. Almost.
Her companion follows her gaze, and I watch her lips purse in that particular way that wealthy women have perfected. The look that sayshow did you get in herewithout having to lower themselves to actually speak the words.
Heat crawls up my neck, but I refuse to drop my eyes. I've spent too many years being looked through by people who think I'm furniture. I know how to endure silent judgment while pretending it doesn't slice me open inside.
The man doesn't even glance my way. I'm so far beneath his notice that I might as well be invisible, and somehow that's worse than the women's pointed stares.
Soft music plays from hidden speakers, something classical and calming, completely at odds with the tension coiling in my shoulders. The elevator rises so smoothly I barely feel the motion, carrying us up through floors of legitimate business toward the exclusive club that sits seven stories above.
The silence stretches between us like a held breath. I keep my eyes fixed on the mirrored doors, watching the floor numbers climb, willing the elevator to move faster. I can feel the women's gazes still on me, sharp as knives, dissecting every flaw and failure written across my appearance.
You don't belong here,their looks say.You're not one of us. You never will be.
They're right. I know they're right. But right now, belonging doesn't matter. Only Gemma matters. Only the wish I'm about to place and the desperate hope that someone, somewhere, will answer it.
The elevator glides to a stop and the doors slide open.
White marble floors stretch before me like a frozen sea, so polished I can see my own reflection staring back with wide, terrified eyes. Crystal chandeliers drip from ceilings so high they make me dizzy, casting warm light across velvet furnishings and beautiful people draped in clothes that cost more than my yearly salary. The air smells of expensive perfume and champagne and the particular kind of sin that people pay handsomely to indulge in.
The two women exit first, their silk gowns whispering against the marble as they glide forward. The man follows, and I slip out behind them, keeping my distance, trying to make myself small and forgettable.
A host in an immaculate suit stands behind a podium with a thick leather-bound book, fountain pen poised and ready.
The host's voice is warm but practiced as he greets the women. "Lovely to see you both again. Your usual table is prepared."
He produces the leather book and the women sign their names with the casual elegance of people who have done this a thousand times. Their signatures are probably works of art, all flowing curves and confident strokes. The man signs after them, barely glancing at the page, already looking past the host toward whatever pleasures await him inside.
Then they're gone, disappearing into the club's depths with the rustle of silk and the click of expensive heels on marble, and I'm left standing alone under the host's expectant gaze.
His eyes flick over my work uniform, my scuffed shoes, the dark circles I know are visible beneath my sad attempt at concealer. Something shifts in his expression, but to his credit, his smile doesn't falter.
"Welcome to Scarlet Thorn." His voice remains warm, though I catch the slight question in it now. "May I have your signature? A hostess will escort you to the floor of your choosing."
I sign my name with fingers that tremble only slightly, grateful that he doesn't question my clothes or my bruised face or the fact that I clearly don't belong here. I guess security isn’t his department. It’s hard not to look over my shoulder for some men in black suits ready to escort me out, but I hold steady.
The guest section of the leather book accepts my scrawl without judgment, and a woman in a sleek black evening gown materializes beside me like she was conjured from the shadows.
