Once I get back to the Rothschilds', I change into leggings and sneakers, leash up Bernie, and head outside. The neighborhood glows golden with sunset, every lawn trimmed to within an inch of its life.
Bernie trots beside me like a show dog, tongue out, tail wagging, oblivious to my stress. I glance down at him. “You’re a good boy,” I say, and I swear he nods in reply. Therapy dog and best friend in one.
When we get back, I give him a few extra minutes of cuddles, change into my catering uniform, and head out. Vanessa has already sent three texts and a voice memo about tonight’s event. I haven’t responded yet, but she’ll know I’m coming. I always show up.
Tonight’s the annual charity gala: the town’s excuse to wear overpriced heels and drink too much under the guise of fundraising. The place smells like money—gardenia arrangements, warm rolls, and whatever candle someone decided cost enough to be tasteful. I walk through the employee entrance of the banquet hall, hair in a slick ponytail and apron already on.
“If I have to pass one more tray of mini crab cakes, I’m gonna start smuggling them in my bra,” Nessa whispers as she appears at my elbow, curls pinned up in a way that suggests she tried to follow the dress code and then immediately reconsidered.
“Only if you share. I’ve eaten nothing but a granola bar and a latte from the man who gave away all my money, but damn, that overpriced drink was delicious.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m broke. And charming. It’s a deadly combo.”
We round the corner into the ballroom, and that’s when I spot them.
Mrs. Hughes. Holly. And Mandy. Full glam, full sneer, full-body eye roll from Mrs. Hughes the moment our eyes meet.
“Becca?” Holly says, blinking like she’s confused I’m upright. “You’re working? Don’t you have … another job?”
I put on my best smile. “Yep, many people need a few to pay the bills. I’m trying to earn enough to build the cabins. You know, since my life savings got rerouted to fund your dream instead. Crab cake?”
Holly flushes. “I—I didn’t know you were … struggling,” she stammers, glancing at Mrs. Hughes as if realizing she’s missed something big.
“That’s because you didn’t ask. You assumed taking $75,000 was no big deal?”
Holly stares at me, eyes wide, mouth a little ajar.
Mrs. Hughes cuts in. “Well, I suppose it builds character.”
“Thank you,” I say sweetly. “Maybe you should’ve tried it with your kids.”
I walk away, head held high, tray still full. And then I successfully avoid them the rest of the night. Did Nessa cause the champagne glasses to overflow, spilling the liquid on Mandy's shoes? Maybe.
By the time the night is over, my feet ache and my pockets are overflowing with tips. Pride stings less when it’s paying the bills.
I duck into the hallway behind the ballroom, pretending to restock while sneaking a few deep breaths. Just ten more minutes, and I can slip into the prep kitchen. I’ll count wine glasses, scrape frosting off trays—anything that lets me avoid smiling at those who think I'm less than.
Voices echo from around the corner. I freeze when I recognize them. Rick and Mandy.
I slow my steps, ducking behind a catering cart.
Rick’s voice is low, edged with irritation. “I thought you said he wouldn’t get into the details.”
Mandy exhales, the sound sharp but controlled. “He wasn’t supposed to. You’ve heard him—he cares about the build, not the backend.”
“He was asking about customer acquisition,” Rick says. “That’s not surface-level.”
I shift behind the catering cart, pulse ticking up.
Mandy huffs under her breath. “Since when does he care about that? He’s never cared before.”
Rick doesn’t answer right away. “Something’s got his attention now.”
“Well, it doesn’t change anything,” Mandy says, smoothing something in her tone. “We don’t need to drag him through every moving piece before we’ve even opened the doors.”
Rick lets out a quiet breath. “I’m not saying we do. I’m saying if he keeps pushing, he’s going to want to see how everything’s structured.”
