Page 1 of Claimed By the Boss

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LYRA

The sound of a glass shattering draws attention near the bar.

Before I can even process who did it and why it happened, my coworker catches my attention first.

“Table seventeen wants another bottle of Dom, and the guy in the grey suit asked if we serve caviar with a conscience,” Cindy mutters as she breezes past me, two martinis balanced in one hand.

Maison Royale is chaos dressed in crystal and candlelight. Jazz hums from the baby grand in the corner, the clink of cutlery and high heels layering over it. Manhattan glitters outside the floor-to-ceiling windows like a city showing off.

I dodge a stumbling drunk in Gucci loafers and slide into my section, tray perched on my shoulder. The finance bros are already loud and laughing too hard at jokes that probably aren’t even a little bit funny, while loosening their ties like it’s a strip show. I deliver their cocktails with a smile polished from years of practice.

“Gentlemen,” I say, setting the glasses down. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

One of them, slicked-back hair and Wall Street swagger, leans in. His breath reeks of gin and ego.

“How about your number?” he slurs.

“Not on the menu,” I reply, still smiling.

His buddies chuckle. He doesn’t.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he pushes, voice thick. “You want that big tip, don’t you?” He jerks his chin downward.

I keep my tray steady. “Anything else I can get for you?”

His smile drops. “Snooty bitch,” he mutters under his breath as I walk away.

I hear it, but I don’t stop. Can’t resist not rolling my eyes though.

The rest of the night blurs as orders come in, tables reset, and I expertly dodge many pairs of sweaty hands and veiled insults with the grace of a stage actress. But it comes to a full stop fifteen minutes later when I return to the bros with their steaks.

“This is too rare,” Mr. Slicked Hair snaps, poking at the plate like it offended him personally. “Also, your service sucks.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say coolly. “Would you like to speak with my manager?”

“Oh, don’t run off,” he sneers. “A girl like you should be able to handle a little criticism.”

He steps into my space. I don’t flinch, but I can feel eyes on us now. Nearby tables go quiet.

“Apologize,” he demands, eyes narrowed. “For your attitude.”

I blink once. “I offered to comp your dessert.”

He grabs my wrist.

My body reacts faster than my mind. I twist, pull back, but he holds tight. The tray wobbles in my other hand. Ice rattles.

“Let go,” I say under my breath.

“Don’t be a?—”

Then he’s gone in a blink of an eye.

He’s ripped away so fast he stumbles into a chair. A stranger, who is tall, calm, and terrifyingly precise, has him by the collar. One second it’s chaos, the next it’s a chokehold.

The finance bro gasps. His feet scramble against the tile.