Chapter 2 Emery's POV

You know what's worse than being broke?

Being broke and dressing up to serve champagne to people who probably use hundred-dollar bills as napkins.

I tugged at the tight black dress the catering company provided, elegant on anyone else, but on me? It clung in all the wrong places and rode up whenever I breathed. I looked like a discount Bond girl. If James Bond had a waitress with college loans and hospital bills.

"Alright, Emery," I muttered to myself in the mirror backstage. "No tripping, no spilling, no smart-mouthing rich people. Just smile, serve, and maybe, just maybe you'll keep your job long enough to pay for mom's next bill."

My chest tightened at the thought.

Mom still hadn't woken up. That little movement her fingers made last week? The doctors said it was involuntary, nothing more. I didn't cry, not in front of them, at least. But every day, I visited, talked, told her about my shift, about her stupid soap operas I now watched religiously just to update her. She'd wake up eventually, I told myself. She had to.

So tonight? Was for her.

"Emery!" my supervisor snapped. "Champagne service now!"

"Coming, boss lady," I said, balancing the tray with a dramatic flair and internally praying my nervous hands wouldn't betray me.

The gala was held at a stunning rooftop ballroom, glass ceiling twinkling with city lights. Everything smelled like roses and money. I wove through the crowd, past gowns that cost more than my rent and men who looked like they owned continents.

"Champagne?" I offered, flashing a customer-service smile that hurt my soul.

Then it happened.

One second I was focused on a guest's glass. The next, someone brushed past me and my hand jerked. A flute of deep red wine flew through the air like it had a vendetta and landed on the crisp white shirt of a man standing near the edge of the dance floor.

Gasps. A few whispers. Me? I froze. Eyes wide. Mouth open.

"Oh my gosh. Oh my...Sir, I am so....Wait, do you have a napkin? Should I find one? Should I lick it? No, that's weird, don't do that, Emery!"

His eyes narrowed as he looked down at his drenched shirt... and then at me. Cold, sharp, gorgeous.

Yup, gorgeous. That kind of too handsome for this planet face that rich jerks always seemed to have. Jet-black hair. Jaw like he bites diamonds for breakfast. And now... a huge red wine stain dripping down his chest.

"I... I swear it had nothing to do with your face! I mean...shirt! Your shirt!" I babbled, fanning him awkwardly with my hand. "I'm not flirting, I swear. Not that you're not hot! Ugh! Okay, kill me now!"

He didn't speak. Just raised one eyebrow like I was something sticky on the bottom of his designer shoes.

"Let me fix this!" I offered too quickly, reaching for a napkin and dabbing his shirt, only to realize I was basically patting his chest. I froze, horrified. "Oh no. I'm touching you. I'm assaulting a billionaire. I'm going to jail."

"Enough," he said, voice smooth and cold like iced whiskey. "Get your manager."

And just like that... I was toast.

As I watched him walk away, dabbing his expensive chest, the weight of dread dropped into my stomach like a brick. Somewhere behind me, I heard my supervisor call my name and not in the good, "You're getting promoted" way.

Well, Emery, I thought bitterly. You just spilled your way straight into unemployment.