A Taste of Humiliation

Piper

I step into my room, shutting the door behind me with a soft click. Leaning against it, I exhale, still replaying the moment those piercing blue eyes locked onto mine during breakfast. It wasn’t just the way he looked at me—there was something in his gaze, something possessive and oddly intimate that sent shivers down my spine. I shake my head, trying to push the memory aside.

Focus, Piper.

After a quick shower, I pull on a pair of ripped black jeans, a loose, white cropped sweater, and my trusty canvas boots. I tie my black hair into a messy bun and grab my leather jacket just in case it gets chilly later. Comfortable and casual. Nothing to catch anyone’s attention. That’s the goal, right?

As I step into the hallway, closing the door behind me, I see her—Zoe. She’s down the hall, locking her door. Surprisingly, she’s alone. No sign of her insufferable boyfriend hovering over her like a possessive shadow. She must feel my gaze because she looks up suddenly and smiles, lifting a hand in a small wave. I hesitate but wave back, only to drop my hand awkwardly, remembering how her boyfriend had glared daggers at me earlier.

“Hey!” Zoe’s voice rings out as she hurries toward me, her brown curls bouncing with each step. She doesn’t seem awkward or uncomfortable, unlike me. “Oh my goodness,” she gushes the moment she reaches me, her green eyes wide with excitement. “How did you manage to land such a hot guy in less than twenty-four hours? Like, seriously, where do you find them? Do they fall from the sky for you or what?”

My cheeks flush as I sputter, “He’s not my boyfriend. I don’t even know him!”

Zoe raises a perfectly arched brow, clearly unconvinced. “Oh, please. Did you not see the way he was looking at you during breakfast? And the way he was all caring—getting you water and everything? Girl, the sexual tension between you two was palpable. And don’t even get me started on how ridiculously rich he looks. You’re so freaking lucky, Piper. I’m actually jealous.”

I laugh nervously, brushing off her comment. “It’s not like that. I don’t even know his name. He’s just some stranger.”

A devilishly handsome one.

Zoe loops her arm through mine as we walk down the hallway. “A sexy, expensive-looking stranger who clearly wants you,” she sings teasingly. “Mark my words—he’s coming back for you.”

I roll my eyes, trying to play it cool. “He’s way out of my league, Zoe. Let’s be real. Compared to him, I look like…”

“Like a poor church mouse,” a cold, venomous voice interrupts from behind us.

I don’t need to turn around to know it’s Amber. Her snide tone is unmistakable. My fists clench at my sides as the sting of her words hits me.

I start to turn, ready to say something—anything—but Zoe tightens her grip on my arm, stopping me. “Don’t,” she whispers; her expression hardens, but her voice remains calm. “Don’t waste your time or your breath on her. She’s not worth it. Talking from experience.”

Before I can protest, she pulls me along, practically dragging me toward the main entrance where the others are gathering. I can feel Amber’s glare burning into the back of my head, but I force myself not to look back.

As we reach the entrance, Zoe suddenly freezes. Her grip on my arm loosens, and I glance at her in confusion. “Zoe?” I follow her line of sight and see him—her boyfriend. His dark eyes are locked onto her, his jaw set, and his expression colder than ice. He definitely didn't look pleased seeing her with me. What's his problem?

I bite my tongue, resisting the urge to say what I’m really thinking. Why does she let him control her like this? He’s a walking red flag, and it’s clear as day. But we’re not close enough for me to push boundaries like that, so I keep quiet.

“Everyone, please make your way to the buses,” a staff member announces, gaining our attention. “We’ll be starting the grand tour shortly.”

Zoe exhales shakily, forcing a smile. “I’ll see you later,” she murmurs before walking over to her boyfriend. Soon, the two of them are deep in a heated conversation as they head toward the bus.

As I move toward the bus exit, someone shoves past me so hard that I stumble sideways. “Oops,” comes Amber’s sickly-sweet voice, quickly followed by her sharp, mocking laughter. I don’t need to look to know it’s her. Rolling my eyes, I mutter under my breath, “Real mature.”

By the time I make it off the bus, I feel like I can finally breathe again. The entire ride was suffocating—conversations buzzing around me, all revolving around him. His looks, his wealth, his attention toward me. Some women whispered, speculating it must’ve been a mistake. Others didn’t even bother lowering their voices, sneering that there’s no way someone like me could attract a man like that. I wanted to tell them he’s not my anything, but what would’ve been the point? They’d just twist my words anyway.

The guide—a chipper man with a polished smile and a clipboard—introduces himself as Daniel and claps his hands together, launching into a speech about the hotel’s amenities. His enthusiasm is contagious at first, but it’s hard to focus with the weight of everyone’s stares drilling into me. As Daniel leads us on the tour, pointing out the spa, gym, and various luxuries, I stay near the back of the group, keeping my head down.

Finally, we’re brought into a grand wine cellar. The room is massive, with walls lined with towering racks of wine bottles and a faint chill in the air. The dim lighting reflects off the glass, creating a warm, intimate atmosphere. Daniel explains that this part of the tour is a special treat arranged by the hotel’s owner and that we’ll be sampling their finest wines. Everyone perks up at this, their earlier cattiness temporarily forgotten.

Then, out of nowhere, he steps forward.

At first, I don’t recognise him. He’s not wearing his tailored suit; instead, he’s dressed like one of the staff, in a fitted black shirt with rolled-up sleeves and dark slacks. His hair is still impeccable, his blue eyes still piercing, but the outfit throws me off completely. He’s carrying a tray of wine glasses and walking with the kind of casual confidence that makes it impossible to look away.

The room goes silent as he approaches. The chatter stops so abruptly that even Daniel falters mid-sentence. My heart lurches when he stops directly in front of me, picking up a glass and holding it out with a small, knowing smile.

“Here,” he says, his voice as smooth and rich as the wine in the glass. “For you.”

I blink, unsure what to do. The weight of a dozen judgemental eyes is on me, burning into my skin. Hesitantly, I reach out and take the glass, my fingers brushing his for the briefest second. The contact sends a jolt up my arm.

“Uh, thanks,” I murmur, barely able to get the words out.

A snort from my right snaps me out of it. Amber’s there, her arms crossed and her lips curled into a sneer. “Next time, maybe serve everyone else first instead of wasting time on her,” she spat, but he doesn’t even glance at her.

His gaze stays on me, softening in a way that makes my stomach flip. “Do you like it?” he asks, tilting his head slightly.

I take a cautious sip of the wine, the flavour bursting on my tongue. “It’s...lovely,” I admit blushing.

His smile widens, and he winks at me before stepping back. “Good. I’ll be back with more.” And just like that, he’s gone, moving through the room with the same effortless charm, offering wine to the others.

The moment he’s out of earshot, Amber bursts into laughter. “Oh my God,” she says, clutching her stomach dramatically. “You actually thought you snagged some rich Prince Charming, didn’t you? Turns out he’s just a poor waiter. How fitting. You two will make the perfect couple.”

I can feel the blood rush to my face, embarrassment and indignation warring within me. A small, traitorous part of me is relieved—if he’s just a waiter, maybe he’s not as out of reach as I thought. But the rest of me burns with the humiliation of her words and the way the others are now looking at me like I’m a joke.

I square my shoulders, refusing to let Amber see that she’s gotten to me. “At least he’s got class,” I snap. “Something money can’t buy, no matter how hard you try.”

Her smirk falters for just a second, and that’s enough for me. Turning on my heel, I slip into the crowd, determined to disappear from the spotlight. I clutch the glass of wine tightly, as though it’s the only thing keeping me grounded. He might not be the Prince Charming I imagined, but he could still be the perfect fake husband. Now, all I have to do is convince him.

Yet one question kept echoing in my mind: why had he dressed like he was ridiculously wealthy when he clearly wasn’t?