Chapter 6: Contractually Yours

Jem's POV

The event day finally arrived.

I woke up knowing today mattered more than any other shift I’d ever worked.

The pay alone was shocking.

I couldn’t imagine how many months of night shifts it would take to earn this much.

I promised myself I wouldn’t mess this up.

The gala was already in full swing by the time I stepped into the ballroom, already dressed in my waiter's uniform with a clean white towel resting naturally over my shoulder.

I had been working for two hours straight and my feet already knew it, but the pay waiting at the end of tonight was enough to keep them moving.

I straightened my uniform and focused.

This was work. Nothing more.

I moved through the ballroom carefully, serving drinks and clearing empty glasses, staying polite and invisible the way a good waiter was expected to be.

Around me were the kinds of people I had only ever seen on television—sharp suits, expensive gowns, and quiet, confident conversations that seemed to assume the entire room was already listening.

I kept my steps measured, avoiding the sweeping dresses of the women drifting across the floor, careful not to draw attention in a place where attention itself felt expensive.

I was just reaching for an empty glass on a nearby table when the entire hall suddenly erupted.

Loud applause. Cheers. The kind of reaction a room gives when someone important walks in.

I glanced up toward the stage without meaning to.

And everything inside me went completely still.

The man standing at the podium was tall, sharp featured, and carried himself with the kind of quiet authority that made everyone else in the room look like they were just filling space around him.

The applause kept building as he raised one hand slightly to acknowledge the crowd.

Something about him felt strangely familiar.

Not his face exactly. Just the feeling. Like standing near someone I had encountered before in a completely different context.

I found myself staring longer than I should have, mentally flipping through every face I had ever known, every place I had ever been, trying desperately to locate where exactly I had seen this man before.

I can swear I've seen him before.

But no matter how hard I searched my memory, nothing concrete came back. Just that feeling. Persistent and unexplainable.

Eventually, I pushed the thought away and refocused on my tray.

Speeches or ‘somehow familiar’ men don't concern me. The money does.

I had just taken an order from a nearby guest when I turned around and walked straight into someone, my shoulder bumping into hers with a sharp impact.

The collision was hard enough to make me stumble.

I looked up to apologise and the words died completely in my throat.

I froze at once.

Standing right in front of me was Mara.

Yes—Mara.

My ex-girlfriend.

The same girl who sold me out, got me expelled, and ended my future in the police academy we both once attended.

She wore a floor-length gown that trailed elegantly behind her, a ceremonial sash across her chest with her name boldly written on it, and a small crown resting perfectly on her head as though it had always belonged there.

For a full second neither of us moved.

Then her expression shifted from shock into something colder and more deliberate.

"What are you doing here?" she whispered, her voice low and sharp enough to cut through the noise around us.

I ignored her question and simply apologized to her for stepping on her. “I’m sorry,” I said at once, bowing my head slightly—just as I would have done with any other random person if I had accidentally stepped on them.

With that, I stepped back, and was ready to walk away.

I wanted no problems.

This job pays too high for me to ruin it.

However, just as I was about to leave, Mara grabbed my arm and whispered furiously. “I said what are you doing here? Why are you here?” Her eyes burned into me.

"Working," I said simply, stepping back and adjusting my tray. "Excuse me."

She grabbed my arm again just before I could move.

"This is my party," she said, her grip tightening. "Leave. Right now."

"I'll leave when I'm paid," I replied calmly, pulling my arm free. "Until then I have a job to do here."

Her face twisted.

I could see it happening in real time—the calculation, the desperation, the decision forming behind her eyes before she even moved.

I could already tell she hated how calm I looked.

After everything she’d done, she probably expected me broken—or worse.

And maybe she was right. I had lost everything.

But somehow, life still dragged me here, serving at a gala that paid more in one night than all my miserable part-time jobs combined.

Before I could even guess what Mara was planning, she suddenly snatched a glass of red wine from a passing waitress and poured it straight down the front of her own gown.

Then she screamed.

“You clumsy poor thing! What did you just do?! You spilled wine on me!”

The entire ballroom fell silent.

Every conversation died instantly. Every head turned toward us—including the man standing at the podium in the middle of his speech.

And just like that, I was standing in the center of the room holding an empty tray while hundreds of eyes locked onto me.

Three weeks of hiding, surviving, and trying to rebuild myself—and Mara had managed to destroy my dignity again in less than a minute.