Hated By The Bully King

Cora

This isn’t a house. It’s a palace.

As I weave through the plethora of guests, balancing a tray on my palm and offering hors d’oeuvres I can’t even pronounce, my gaze roams around the ballroom. My mouth practically reaches the floor, my brain trying to comprehend that people actually live this way.

Chandeliers are suspended from the ceiling, their crystals sparkling across the walls and bouncing off the expensive jewelry on the guests. The marble floor is so polished I can practically see my reflection. The tables are set with crisp white, elegant tablecloths, the dishes and utensils glittering, and the guests are dressed in their finest.

We’ve catered to the wealthy before, but this is a whole other ball game.

And the guest of honor? None other than sixteen-year-old Alessandro Beckham, the sole heir to the Beckham Empire. His dad is Asher Beckham, the richest man alive. He owns practically the whole world, no joke. From hotel chains to tech companies, sports teams, international enterprises, you name it.

It seems he couldn’t make it to his only son’s birthday party, hence the new entertainment system at the corner of the room, still wrapped in its blue bow.

Alessandro Beckham is at the center of the ballroom, chatting to a man three times his age. His hands are stuffed into his expensive black slacks, his head twisted to the side like he’d rather run himself over ten times than listen to the older man. His russet-colored hair falls over his face in the perfect bad boy fashion.

“Cora,” a voice hisses from behind me. When I turn around, I spot Andy, my boss and owner of Loew’s Catering, tilting his head toward Alessandro. “Offer him some food. You’re here to work, not ogle the main attraction.”

Trying not to roll my eyes, I salute before making my way over to Alessandro and the older man. I hold out the tray, plastering on a smile equal to the value of this palace.

Alessandro hardly looks my way, choosing to focus on the man standing before him as though he’s the most important person in the world. It’s almost like I’m not worthy enough to be acknowledged, like I’m the scum beneath his expensive shoes. All because I’m part of the working class.

“Something to eat?” I say, sliding the tray a bit closer to him and widening my million-watt smile. Flicking his hair from his face, the guy still doesn’t look my way. I might as well be wallpaper, except my plain pale yellow server uniform would totally ruin the elegant design.

I shift the tray toward the older man. “Sir?”

He offers me a thankful smile, says, “Oh, no thank you, dear,” before turning back to Alessandro, who’s now wearing an irritated expression on his face.

“What your father and I discussed…” the older man continues.

His words fly over my head, my focus on the rich guy standing only inches from me. I’ve never really gotten a good look at him, since my nose isn’t buried in the magazines kids at school obsess over. But damn, he’s hot. A thousand degrees. Seriously, you can probably boil an egg on his face—and get some yummy flavor, too. The guy’s got it all: looks, money, and a shit-tone of charisma. It oozes out of him just by standing there and rolling his eyes at the older man. And his tall body dressed in that pressed black suit and slacks only add points in his favor.

Why are rich people always good-looking? So unfair.

Alessandro’s head suddenly snaps to mine. “Is there a reason you’re still here?”

I catch my boss Andy eye-signaling me to get my ass away from there. As a server, my job is to serve. Not to stare at the heir to the Beckham Empire.

Tossing Alessandro and the older man another million-watt smile, I scurry away, careful not to lose hold of the tray, which, by the way, is still full of hors d’oeuvres.

“What was that?” Andy hisses, catching the tray before it splatters to the floor. His eyes flick behind me, and when I spin around I catch Alessandro’s striking blue eyes on mine. For a second only. I bet he thought I’d trip and fall, providing entertainment for this bummer of a party. Sure the people are eating and dancing, but no one really seems to want to be here.

“Nothing.” I shrug. “I’m here to work.”

“You bet you are. Get back out there.”

I do my rounds, steering clear of the guy of the hour and exchanging smiles with the other servers, whom haven’t either worked in such a setting. Some of the guests are thankful for the food so they don’t have to stand there bored out of their minds. A part of me feels a little sorry for the guy. Are all his birthday parties like this? Where are his friends?

After an hour, a man with graying hair who looks like he’s in his mid-forties raises a glass. “I’d like to make a toast.”

Finally, I get a break. But Andy keeps me busy preparing more hors d’oeuvres, so I only catch bits and pieces of the toast, and then his speech. From what I gather, the man works for Asher Beckham and is speaking on his behalf. Craning my neck, I manage a glimpse at Alessandro, who stands straight with his hands to his sides, not a crease in his suit, his russet hair still falling over his eyes in that perfect bad-boy manner, looking ever so composed. That’s got to be an act. What kid isn’t hurt by his father’s absence on his own birthday?

“Cora!” Andy scolds.

I snap back in and gather the newly-loaded tray. The man is still droning on about Alessandro’s accomplishments as I strut back into the ballroom. I steal another glance at him—no emotion in his eyes. He might as well be watching a mouse chasing a piece of cheese. No, even that would be more interesting than that dry speech.

Most of the guests aren’t interested in more food, and my feet are on fire from all this parading around. The trays of the other servers are full, too. I’m about to return to the kitchen and tell Andy not to bother preparing any more food, when I catch sight of a man dressed in black from head to toe standing at the far left of the massive ballroom. I don’t know why he caught my attention, maybe because of the way he’s lurking in the shadows all alone or the way he’s stealthily reaching into his pocket and producing a—

Holy shit. A gun.

And it’s pointed directly at Alessandro Beckham. 

I push through the throngs of people. “Look out!” Launching myself at Alessandro, I shove him and myself to the ground as the gunshot echoes in my ears. I hit the floor with such a blow that the wind gets knocked out of me. The left side of my body throbs.

Guests gasp, yell, and flee. It’s total chaos. Amidst people nearly trampling me to death, I catch four men tackling the shooter to the floor. The bullet is lodged in the wall behind us.

Alessandro shifts from underneath me. My eyes snap to him, finding his mesmerizing blue ones locked on mine. I finally see an emotion peeking out from his hard eyes: fear.

The shooter yells over the panicked crowd as the four security guards drag him away. I can’t make out the words, but it’s definitely a threat. Staff members usher the guests out of the house. Andy and my coworkers escape, not giving me a second glance.

The party has officially ended.

“Mr. Beckham.” A hand extends toward Alessandro. “Are you all right?” It’s the guy who made the speech, eyes bulging with worry. A handful of security guards surround us.

I look at the young master crushed beneath me. The fear is still there, though it’s nearly masked now.

“Sir?”

Alessandro blinks, the fear completely vanishing from his eyes. He shoves me aside and stands, slapping the dirt off his pants.

“Get her out of here.”

“Sir?”

“Get her out of here.”

Gray Hair gives me an apologetic look as he holds out his arm. “Miss, may I escort you out?”

I let him lead me out of the room, but not before catching one more look at Alessandro. His hard gaze is dead-set on mine.