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My shadow looms across the floor of what many of us callthe dungeon.
I glance up at the clock on the wall. My shift officially ends in three minutes. My mind races over the two-and-a-half-hour window I have before I need to be at Ambrosia.
A nagging thought reminds me of the delivery expected at my apartment, something I’ve been anxiously anticipating all day. Weston is dressing me tonight, and I’m curious about what he’ll choose.
“Sorry, Mr. Martin. I really can’t.” I shove my hands deep into the pockets of my work apron, a flimsy barrier against the weight of his request.
I came in an hour early this morning because they were short-handed, which cut into my sleep. I’m running on just four hours of rest, and I’m exhausted. The first shift supervisor, Ellen—a woman with little patience—guaranteed I’d leave on time if I helped. I fulfilled my end of that bargain, and now it’s their turn.
“It would benefit you greatly. Could help with a promotion.” He leans forward, as if trying to entice me with unspoken promises.
The thought of that ever-elusive promotion dangles like a carrot that’s always out of reach, and I’m tired of it. My blog pays me more than taking on more responsibility at the W ever could. If only I could get back to writing. I’ve been on a break and I’m too in my head to post again.
“Is that all?” My voice remains steady.
“Won’t you reconsider?”
“Apologies, butno,” I tell him firmly, my answer solidifying like the concrete beneath my feet.
“And if Irequireyou?” he questions, the challenge sparkling in his eyes. If theneeds of the businessrequire extra help, there is an on-call loophole that would force me.
“You wouldn’t do that to me.”
“Stacy didn’t answer, and you’re next up on the on-call roster. You can work three more hours today. Double time, of course.”
“Mr. Martin,” I warn, feeling a surge of defiance, “I have an important dinner scheduled that I cannot miss. If you try to pull rank after I picked up the slack for you this morning, then you’ll kindly accept myimmediateresignation.”
Today, I’m choosing violence. I glance back up at the clock, and I have a minute and a half before I can leave.
“Is that a threat, Ms. Jolly?”
“No, sir, it’s not. But I’ll happily let Mr. Calloway know about this conversation when I see him next.” I grin.
Now,that’sa threat.
If I confided in Easton or Weston about this conversation, either would have him fired. Their father’s vast investments in theW franchise played a pivotal role in shaping it into the worldwide billion-dollar luxury hotel chain that it is today. The Calloways own forty-nine percent of the stakes, so when one of them says to jump, every employee at the W asks how high. If they wanted, theycould buy more shares to take majority ownership of the company, which is always a concern.
Mr. Martin clears his throat, knowing I’m best friends with Lexi. He’s very aware of who she’s married to. Pushing me is the last thing he’d ever want to do because Easton would lose his shit. Weston would too. I try not to use them to pull rank, but it’s necessary.
“Thank you for understanding,” I offer.
He knows I’m the first to volunteer for overtime. My tireless work ethic is both a badge of honor and an end to my means. While I’m sometimes late, I’m also a diligent employee who takes pride in my work. I refuse to feel guilty about saying no; we live in a dog-eat-dog world.
His inability to staff correctly isn’t my burden to bear. Nothing will interrupt my plans tonight.
I leave his office, closing the door behind me. I grab my coat and phone from my locker, then clock out. My back aches from the relentless changing of beds and cleaning up after messy millionaires and adult billionaire babies. These people navigate this world and follow different rules that were crafted solely for their social class.
Honestly, Ihateeverything about this job, and if I didn’t need it for LuxLeaks, I’d quit in a heartbeat. Then again, I haven’t posted in over three months. The article I wrote about Easton and Lexi remains my best work, and maybe it’s a sign that LadyLux needs to fade quietly into obscurity.
The thought of quitting makes me feel sick, and a heaviness settles into the pit of my stomach. I’ve dedicated too much of my life to it.
I take the stairs down to the subway station, which is full of people. As I wait for the train, I stare at the Calloway Diamonds advertisements plastered on the wall. I’m reminded of Weston at every turn.
The train finally arrives. The doors jolt open, and the crowd onthe platform rushes forward, a tidal wave of humanity surging out the open doors. I manage to squeeze in just before they whoosh, cutting us off from the outside world, and the car rattles down the track.
It’s rush hour, and the subway is packed with commuters. Unfamiliar faces are marked by determination and fatigue; they’re either lost in thought or their eyes are glued to their phone. Most of us travel to Manhattan for work, and the commute is routine.
I clutch the metal bar and stand shoulder to shoulder with strangers. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I check my notifications, and I’m shocked by what I see—a message from Samson. My ex. The only man I ever really loved.