Chapter 4 TWO WORLDS, ONE NIGHT

PAMELA'S POV

I don't remember saying yes out loud.

It was more of a slow surrender. A deep sigh slipped through my lips the night after Grandpa's collapse when I found myself staring at his hospital bed and tracing the calluses on his hand with my thumb. The way he looked at me-hollowed out but still smiling, like he was trying to protect me from the very thing that was killing him-it broke something in me. Or maybe it lit a fire. I can't tell the difference anymore.

That's the only thing going through my head as I walk into this huge house. Well, not through the front, of course. Just the side door-the one meant for people like me.

Even the back hall looks rich. The floor is shiny. The walls are clean and white. It smells like lemon and money. Everything's spotless like even dust is scared to land here.

I tug at my black dress. It's not fancy, just simple and plain. A friend let me borrow it. She said I'd blend in. I hope she's right.

A woman with a headset hands me a tray without even looking at me. "West Ballroom. Keep moving. Don't talk unless someone talks to you. Don't drop anything." And if you break anything, it comes out of your pay

I hold the tray tight and walk through the big swinging doors.

The dress itches. It's plain, the kind you wear when you don't want anyone to notice you. Black cotton, short sleeves, flat shoes. No jewelry. My hair's pulled back tight like a lid screwed on too hard.

I let out a breath, trying to stay quiet, to feel small, to disappear.

But the moment I step out into the ballroom, I realize-there's no such thing here.

The chandeliers drip crystal. The walls gleamed like they were dipped in gold. People float across the floor in gowns that cost more than my rent, sipping champagne and talking in soft, practiced voices that carry the weight of old money and newer secrets. Everything smells like roses and rich people's dreams.

I walk through them like a ghost, holding a tray of canapés that shake just a little too much in my hands. I don't belong here. I never have.

I shouldn't be thinking of him.

But I am.

That one night-weeks ago, maybe months, I'm not sure anymore-keeps rewinding in my mind like a broken cassette. The heat of his skin. The low rumble of his voice. The way he looked at me like I was a puzzle he wanted to ruin.

He told me his name was Daniel.

I found out later it wasn't.

Liar.

But God, the way he touched me and the way he made me forget. Just for a night.

I bite down the thought and keep walking, dodging elbows and diamond bracelets. My tray tilts. I overcorrect.

And that's when it happens.

A shrimp skids off the edge and lands on the white marble floor.

I want to pick it up and notice someone is watching. Probably everyone. I don't need to look up.

But I do.

And it's him.

Standing across the room, in a black tailored suit that looks like it was stitched by sin itself, holding a glass of something expensive. His tie is loose. His eyes aren't.

He's staring.

Wilfred Johnson.

The man who lied to me.

The man I let in, only once, just enough to leave a mark I can't scrub out

My breath stutters. My fingers close around the shrimp, but it's like I've forgotten how to stand. My knees lock.

I know I should look away. I should pretend I don't recognize him. He probably doesn't remember me, anyway. Girls like me are forgettable.

But his eyes narrow. Just a little. Like he's trying to place a name on my face.

And then-something flickers across his expression.

Recognition.

Oh God.

The tray was shaking in my hands and I jolted upright, my heart was pounding like a drum

I turn too fast. One of the toothpicks wobbles and stabs the edge of my palm. I feel the sharp pain and I endure it.

I've to be focused and move because if I don't I'll fall apart and standing still hurts more

*****

I slip back behind a cluster of people discussing stocks and art collections like they're grocery lists. My breath comes in shallow bursts. I make it to the service hallway and press my back against the wall, my chest heaving.

What the hell is he doing here?

Well-duh, Pamela. It's his party.

Why did I come?

He lied. He gave me a fake name. It disappeared after one night as none of it mattered. And now here he is, dressed like sin and staring at me like I'm the one who broke something.

The worst part?

A piece of me wanted him to remember.

That makes me sick.

"Everything okay?"

I jerk my head up. One of the caterers-young, freckles, too much eyeliner-tilts her head at me. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

I force a smile. "Just needed a minute."

She shrugs. "Don't let the guests see you like that. They love weakness."

Right.

Of course, they do.

The girl leaves me alone, she doesn't comfort me, no curiosity, just a shrug like I'm not worth asking about and a warning like that's all I deserve

I press my palm to the floor and push myself back up.

My feet hurt and my heart hurts worse.

He saw me.

He recognized me.

And I... I looked back.

I should've walked out the second I saw him. Dropped the tray, ditched the dress, and ran barefoot into the night if I had to. But I didn't. I stood there like some tragic, wide-eyed idiot from a book I'd mock if it wasn't suddenly my life.

My fingers tighten around the tray. They're trembling.

Why are you still here, Pamela?

Because Grandpa needs that surgery, our rent is overdue and the eviction notices don't care if your heart got broken by a man with a fake name and expensive cufflinks. Because I don't get to be dramatic. Not right now. Maybe not ever. ,

I draw in a long breath. My lungs burn like they're punishing me for pretending to be calm.

I fix the food on the tray. Adjust the little napkins. Smooth the hem of my dress like that'll fix anything.

Then I walk back in.

The ballroom hasn't changed. It's still obscene with money. Still buzzing with low laughter and the kind of music that sounds elegant until you listen too closely-it's hollow. Like background noise for a life I'll never afford.

I keep my head down.

But I feel him before I see him. Like a storm creeping under the skin, pressure building in my ears.

I glance sideways-and there he is again.

Closer this time.

Leaning against a pillar like it belongs to him. He is holding a drink, he probably doesn't need. Talking to no one. Just watching.

Watching me.

A nerve twitches in my cheek.

I grip the tray tighter and look away, I keep walking and serve the salmon bites. Smile at the woman with a tight face and colder eyes. Nod at the man who doesn't even look at me when he takes two.

I do my job.

I'm good at doing my job.

And still, I feel his gaze following me. Burning the back of my neck. Weaving through the silk and perfume like static.

When I make my way toward the bar to swap trays, I steal one last glance-

And he's gone.

Gone.

I was relieved, and I leaned against the wall for a second, pretending to stretch my ankle and not to shake it. Maybe I imagined it, maybe he didn't recognize me or Maybe that flicker in his eyes was just guilt from some other girl he discarded.

And maybe I'm not a walking bruise wrapped in linen.

The voice is quiet, low, almost too close like it's meant to slip under my skin

My heart slams into my ribs.

I turn slowly.

He's standing just behind me now but not too close to touch, but his scent curls into my nose-clean, expensive. Like something you don't notice until it's too late.

Wilfred.

Not Daniel. Wilfred.

The man who kissed lies into my mouth and left before morning.

I don't answer him. I can't. My lips are numb.

"I don't believe I'd see you again." He shot back

I look away and focus on the empty tray in my hands like it's a lifeline.

"Didn't think you'd lie about who you were," I shot back, I decided not to look at him.

There's a pause.

Then-"Fair."

It's the way he says it. There's no excuse or apology. Just that-fair-like he knows he's done worse and doesn't expect forgiveness.

I finally meet his eyes.

They're the same color I remember-dark, unreadable, a little too steady.

"What do you want?" My voice is quieter than I mean it to be. But it still cuts.

"I didn't expect you to be here." He shot back

I laugh. "Yeah, well. Life's full of disappointments."

He smirks, just a little, not cruel, more like someone who already knows the answer and doesn't need to say it out loud, just... knowing, like he's watching me from a higher place I can't quite reach

"So is this your day job now? Or just part-time pretending not to care?"

The words land with the precision of someone who's studied me too well, they sting not because they're wrong, but because they're too right, like he peeled back a layer I didn't even realize I was hiding behind and pointed straight at the truth I wasn't ready to admit

I square my shoulders. "This is me working. You're the one pretending."

His brow lifts. "Pretending what?"

"That you don't remember. That you didn't lie. That you're not the kind of guy who disappears after-" I cut myself off before the word sex can escape.

But he hears it anyway and he remains silence.

His gaze drops-just briefly-to my lips. And then back to my eyes.

"I remember," he says.

My throat tightens.

"I remember all of it, Pamela."

The sound of my name in his mouth feels dangerous. Like a match being struck.

But I don't back down. I hold his gaze even though everything in me wants to flinch.

"Too bad I don't," I lie.

He smiles, but it's empty. "That's a shame."

The tray feels heavy in my hands now. I need to get away before this spirals. Before I unravel.

"I have to get back," I say. "People are expecting-"

He steps aside, motioning with a mock politeness. "Don't let me keep you."

But his voice comes out tight and controlled, as if he's holding something back, like there's a whole truth trapped behind his teeth that he's forcing himself to swallow instead of speak

I walk away.

Fast.

But I can still feel him behind me, like his presence is pressed into the air itself, watching with that heavy kind of silence that means he's thinking too much and saying nothing

And that's the most dangerous part.