Page 50 of The Royal in Room 3

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“Good answer,” Roger said. He gave me a reassuring smile. “And don’t worry. Half the drinks people order are just ordinary things with unnecessarily dramatic names.”

“That makes me feel slightly better.”

Next came Emilia, who showed me where completed orders would be placed and explained the system of table numbers displayed on small screens above the service counter. She spoke quickly, but whenever my expression became too panicked, she slowed down and repeated herself without making me feel foolish.

Phoenix introduced me to several more people as we crossed the floor. There was Nico, another server assigned to the VIP level, Tasha, who supervised the private lounges, and Blake, the security detail on the VIP floor, who seemed to know everyone despite admitting that he had only worked at Club Halo for three months.

By the time Phoenix led me upstairs, I was desperately trying to remember all their names.

The VIP floor was quieter than the main club, though the music still pulsed through the walls beneath my feet. Instead of a crowded dance floor, there were wide velvet booths arranged around low tables, each separated by decorative screens and hanging curtains that they could close or keep open. Soft gold lighting reflected from dark glass and polished brass.

The bar in this area was smaller than the one downstairs but far more elegant, with dark marble counters, gold shelving, and bottles arranged beneath soft amber lights. According to Phoenix, most orders could be filled there, although anything unusually complicated would be sent to the main bar.

After familiarizing me with the bartender there, Phoenix guided me to the largest booth near the balcony. The man waiting there appeared to be in his sixties. His black hair was threaded through with silver, and he was devastatingly good-looking. He must have broken a lot of hearts when he was younger. Possibly still did.

He wore the kind of quiet wealth I recognized immediately in his clothing. His dark suit was clearly custom-made, the fabric tailored to sit perfectly across his shoulders and gold embroidery worked into the cuffs. I had spent my entire life around men who considered clothing an extension of status, and I knew the tailoring alone had probably cost more than most people earned in months. Certainly more than I would earn in a year at this bartending job.

The younger man beside him was closer to my age. He wore a fitted black mesh top that left little to the imagination, the thin fabric stretching across his chest and disappearing beneath a cropped leather jacket. His high-waisted trousers hugged his hips before falling in a clean line to polished boots. Gold bangles adorned his arms, matching the large hoops in his ears. The outfit was bold and clearly expensive, designed to draw attention without looking cheap. It suited him perfectly. He was stunning, polished nails, makeup, and all.

The older man smiled the moment he saw Phoenix. “Ah, my favorite guardian angel has landed.”

“How can I ignore my main source of funding?” Phoenix replied, to which the man laughed. He rose to his feet, and they embraced, taking a second longer than necessary for just acquaintances.

The boy rolled his eyes, which landed on me. Color flooded across his cheeks. I quickly looked away, pretending as if I didn’t notice his two-faced behavior. We had people like him in court.

“Soren, this is Mr. Calloway,” Phoenix introduced us. “He has supported Halo House almost since the beginning.”

“Please, call me Martin,” said Mr. Calloway.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” I said with a nod.

“Martin,” he corrected gently.

I smiled at him, pleased that Phoenix hadn’t been exaggerating at all. He seemed like a sweet man. “Martin.”

“And this is Evan,” he said, motioning to the younger man beside him.

Evan barely glanced up from the phone he was now playing with. “Hi.”

Phoenix gave me a quick look that seemed to say I told you so before excusing himself.

I was nervous to be left alone, but Martin spoke to me and put me at ease. After I brought the first round of drinks with trembling hands, he asked me how long I’d been working at Club Halo. When I admitted it was my first night, he looked delighted rather than concerned and told me he would never have guessed. He was lying, of course, but it was nice of him to say so.

Even when I struggled to hear him above the music and had to ask twice whether he wanted sparkling or still water, he remained patient.

Evan did not.

He ordered a drink I had never heard of, and after repeating the name several times to ensure I got it right, I hurried downstairs to ask Roger for help. A few minutes later, I returned with the glass balanced carefully on my tray.

“What is that?” Evan asked, staring at the contents in the glass as if it were poison.

“The drink you ordered.”

“No, it isn’t.”

My stomach tightened. “You asked for a French seventy-five.”