Cora woke up to the sound of a siren three blocks away and a rat scratching inside the wall behind her head.
She didn't move. Not right away. She lay on the mattress, thin sheets tangled around her legs, and stared at the ceiling where the water stain had grown another inch since last week. The landlord wouldn't fix it. The landlord didn't fix anything. He collected rent in cash on the first of every month and disappeared until the next, and that was the entire relationship.
Her phone buzzed on the floor beside her. She reached for it without looking, thumb swiping across the cracked screen to kill the alarm.
6:47 AM. Tuesday. March 15th.
Her eighteenth birthday.
She dropped the phone and closed her eyes.
The apartment was a shoebox on the fourth floor of a building that should have been condemned. One room. No separations. The mattress sat in the corner on the floor because she'd never bothered with a frame. A mini fridge hummed against the opposite wall, loud and constant, the kind of sound that drove people crazy until they stopped hearing it at all.
She had a hot plate. A single pot. One pan with a loose handle. Three forks because the dollar store sold them in threes and she'd never needed more.
The bathroom was a closet with plumbing. Shower, sink, toilet, all crammed so close together she could wash her hands while sitting down if she wanted to. The water ran cold after two minutes, so she'd learned to be fast.
Cora pushed herself off the mattress. Her body ached, the kind of deep tiredness that sleep didn't fix. She'd worked a double yesterday. Would work another one today. That was the deal. That was always the deal.
Work until you're numb. Save what you can. Survive.
She stepped over the clothes on the floor and into the bathroom, not bothering to turn on the light. She knew the space by feel. Knew every crack in the tile, every groan of the pipes, every angle of the mold creeping up the corner of the shower.
The mirror above the sink was small and warped, distorting her reflection into something not quite human. She looked at it anyway. Grey eyes with shadows underneath. Dark hair that needed washing. A face that had learned early how to show nothing.
She turned on the water and waited for it to get warm.
It didn't.
Cora stood at the stop with her hands shoved in her jacket pockets, watching her breath fog in the cold air. A woman next to her scrolled through Instagram, the sound of reels playing on loop, tinny and repetitive. Across the street, a man argued into his phone about money, his voice rising and falling.
The city moved around her. Cars. People. A homeless guy pushing a shopping cart full of cans. A group of teenagers cutting school, laughing too loud about something on one of their phones.
The bus finally groaned to a stop at 7:23. She climbed on, tapped her card, found a seat near the back. The vinyl was cracked and someone had carved "FUCK YOU" into the plastic of the seat in front of her. She stared at it for the next forty minutes, letting the motion of the bus rock her into something like rest.
Her phone was dead. She'd forgotten to wait for it to charge.
Eighteen years old today. No one to text anyway.
The Argent didn't belong in the same city as her apartment.
It sat on the corner of Lexington and 54th like a temple to money, all black marble and gold trim and windows tinted dark enough that the people inside never had to see the street. The sign above the door was small, tasteful, the kind of understated elegance that screamed wealth louder than any neon ever could.
Cora went around back.
The service entrance was down a narrow alley that smelled like garbage and old grease. She punched in the code, shouldered open the heavy door, and stepped into the chaos of the kitchen.
Heat hit her first. Then noise. The clatter of pans, the hiss of burners, the head chef screaming at someone about a sauce that was about to break. Bodies moved around her in a choreographed frenzy, white coats and checked pants, everyone too focused on their work to notice hers.
She clocked in at 8:02. Two minutes late.
The locker room was cramped and smelled like sweat and cheap perfume. Cora changed into her uniform, black slacks, white button-down, black apron that tied at the waist. She checked herself in the scratched mirror on the back of the door. Smoothed down her hair. Practiced the smile she'd need for the next ten hours.
It didn't reach her eyes. It never did.
But the customers didn't care about her eyes. They cared about their wine and their wagyu and their sense of being catered to.As long as she moved quietly and refilled glasses before they were empty, she didn't exist.
That was fine.
She'd been not existing her whole life.
Cora moved through the hours on autopilot. Took orders. Carried plates. Refilled water glasses. Smiled when she was supposed to smile.
By four o'clock, her feet ached and her shoulders were tight and she'd made sixty-three dollars in tips.
The dinner shift was different.
The Argent transformed after dark. The lights dimmed. Candles appeared on tables. The music shifted from soft jazz to something darker, moodier.
The clientele changed too. Younger. Sharper. The kind of people who wore watches that cost more than her rent for a year and never looked at the prices on the menu.
She preferred lunch. Dinner guests looked at you more. Expected more. Wanted you to perform gratitude for the privilege of serving them.
But dinner was where the money was.
Sofia, the hostess, caught her by the bar around seven.
"Table twelve tonight. You're welcome."
Cora glanced at the reservation book. The name was blank. Just a time and a note that said VIP - private dining room.
"Who is it?"
Sofia shrugged, already turning away. "Don't know. Don't care. Big tippers though. Nico served them last month and walked out with four hundred cash."
Four hundred. That was groceries for two months. That was a new phone. That was—
"Just don't fuck it up," Sofia called over her shoulder.
The private dining room was upstairs.
Cora had only been up there twice. Once during training, when the manager had walked her through the layout. Once when another server called in sick and she'd had to cover.
It was a different world. Soundproofed walls. A long mahogany table that could seat fifteen. A bar in the corner stocked with bottles she couldn't pronounce.
She climbed the narrow staircase , fifteen minutes before the reservation. Checked the table settings. Adjusted a fork that was slightly out of line. Made sure the wine glasses were spotless, tilting each one toward the light to check for smudges.
Everything had to be perfect. That was the rule up here. Perfect or you're gone.
The door opened behind her.
She turned, expecting the guests. It was just Marco, one of the bartenders, carrying a bucket of ice and two bottles of something amber.
"Nervous?" He set the bottles on the bar, started arranging glasses.
"Should I be?"
"These guys?" He laughed, but it wasn't a happy sound. "Just keep your head down. Don't make eye contact for too long. Don't ask questions. Pour the drinks, serve the food, and pretend you don't see anything."
Cora frowned. "Don't see what?"
Marco looked at her.
"Nothing. Forget I said anything."
He finished setting up the bar and left without another word.
They arrived at nine.
She heard them before she saw them. Footsteps on the stairs. Multiple sets. Heavy. The kind of walk that didn't rush for anyone.
Cora straightened her apron. Fixed her expression into pleasant neutrality. Waited.
The first man through the door was huge. Tall and broad, shoulders straining against a suit jacket that had clearly been tailored to fit and still looked too small. His head was shaved, his skin dark, his eyes scanning the room in one quick sweep before settling on her for half a second.
He moved aside.
Two more followed. Similar build. Similar energy. They positioned themselves near the walls like they'd done it a thousand times before. Security. Had to be.
Then he walked in.
The air changed.
Cora couldn't explain it. Couldn't rationalize it. One second she was standing there, calm, professional, ready to do her job. The next, something shifted. Like the pressure in the room had dropped. Like all the oxygen had rushed toward the door.
He was tall. Over six feet, maybe six-three, six-four. Dark hair pushed back from a face that looked carved rather than born. Sharp jaw. Straight nose. Cheekbones that caught shadow. He wore a black suit, no tie, the top button of his shirt undone. A watch on his wrist that caught the candlelight.
But it was his eyes that stopped her.
Pale blue. Almost grey. Cold in a way that had nothing to do with color.
They swept the room.
And landed on her.
He stopped walking.
It was subtle. A hitch in his stride, barely there, the kind of thing she wouldn't have noticed if she hadn't been looking directly at him. His jaw tightened. His nostrils flared. Something flickered across his face, gone too fast to name.
Then those pale eyes locked onto her.
Not a glance. Not the dismissive sweep of a man assessing the help. He looked at her like she was the only thing in the room. Like the walls had fallen away and the guards had disappeared and it was just her, just him, and something between them she couldn't see but could almost feel.
Her skin prickled. A flush crept up the back of her neck.
She didn't understand it. Didn't like it.
Cora dropped her gaze. Smoothed her hands over her apron. When she looked up again, he was still staring.
One of the guards cleared his throat.
The spell broke.
He moved to the head of the table. Sat down in one fluid motion, unbuttoning his jacket as he settled into the chair. The guards took positions near the door, silent, watchful.
Cora released a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.
What the hell was that?
She pushed the thought aside. She had a job to do.
"Good evening." Her voice came out steady. Professional. "Can I start you with something to drink?"
He didn't answer.
Just watched her.
The silence stretched.