Chapter one

The kitchen back door of The Rusty Anchor swung open with a soft whoosh as Nyla slipped inside, hit by the familiar reek of stale beer laced with lemon cleaner.

She kicked off her scuffed boots and traded them for the non-slip clogs on the shelf, then yanked her apron from her backpack. The strings tangled in her haste, but she knotted them tight. For a brief second, she felt almost safe—like the apron was armor. But the air hummed wrong today, heavy with something she couldn’t name.

She stepped into the bar just as Derek, the manager, materialized behind the counter, holding a glass up to the light. He didn’t look at her, but she knew he’d been waiting.

“Cutting it close, huh?” His voice was calm, too calm.

Nyla froze. “The lecture ran long. Professor wouldn’t—”

“Schedule’s not optional,” Derek snapped, setting the glass down with a sharp click. He finally turned to face her. “Apron off.”

Her stomach dropped. “What?”

“You heard me.”

The words didn’t register at first. “Derek, come on. I’m only twenty minutes late. I’ll take the worst section, close solo—”

“Shut it,” he said flatly. “Third time this month. This isn’t a dorm for slackers.”

The word burned. She’d mopped vomit off these floors last Saturday, worked double shifts when others called in sick, counted inventory no one else wanted to touch.

“Please,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “My tuition f*e is due next week. I’ll swap shifts, pick up extra hours—”

Derek wiped his hands slowly on a towel. “Your mess. Not mine.”

Desperation clawed up her throat. “You can’t do this. I need this job.”

“I don’t care what you need.”

Something in his tone made it clear the decision was final. The room suddenly felt too small and the air felt too thin.

“Fine, at least pay me for last night’s double and today’s prep.” Nyla said, forcing the words out.

Derek let out a short laugh. “Fired means no payout, kid.”

“That’s illegal.”

“Then sue me.” He nodded toward the service door. “Now leave before I call the cops for trespassing.”

Her hands curled into fists. A few customers at the bar had turned to watch. Heat rushed to her face.

“You can’t just stiff me on wages,” she said, louder now.

“Watch me.”

Anger flared, hot and reckless. “Maybe I should tell them what’s in your office safe,” she shot back. “Or how that ‘premium’ vodka you sell is just cheap swill in fancy bottles.”

The room went silent except for the hum of the beer cooler.

Derek’s eyes hardened. From a nearby booth, old Gus shook his head. “Give it up, girl. You’re done.”

A few quiet chuckles rippled through the bar.

The fight drained out of her all at once, leaving only hollow embarrassment. She grabbed her backpack, kicked off the clogs, and shoved her boots back on.

“Fine, I'll go.” She muttered, heading for the door. 

Derek was already reaching for another glass, like she’d vanished.

At the threshold, Nyla paused. “But I won’t forget this.” She exclaimed and the door groaned shut heavily behind her.

………………..

Outside, the city air bit at her skin. Nyla laced her boots tightly, blinking against the sting in her eyes. Every step away from The Rusty Anchor felt heavier than the last.

Third job this month.

The diner had fired her for being “too slow.” The bookstore had blamed her for a till shortage she didn’t cause. And now this.

Her backpack sagged against her shoulders like dead weight.

She walked without really seeing where she was going, her mind drifting to memories she usually tried to keep buried—her mother’s laugh, soft and warm, before cancer stole it away two years ago. The hospital rooms are the bills are piling higher than hoped.

Her father had never been the same after that. Grief had hollowed him out, leaving a tired man who worked too much and slept too little.

Every shift she worked was supposed to help. To keep them afloat.

And now she had nothing again.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, jolting her from her thoughts, from an unknown number.

She almost ignored it, assuming it was another debt reminder. But something made her answer.

“Hello?”

“Nyla?” a crisp female voice asked. “This is Selene from The Velvet Embrace. You applied for a hostess position.”

Her breath caught.

Right. The application she’d filled out at three in the morning, half panicked and half exhausted.

“Yeah,” Nyla said cautiously.

“We have a private event tonight. High-roller client, short-staffed. Trial shift. Can you be here in an hour?”

The words made her stomach tighten. Private event. High-roller.

She’d heard rumors about places like that—exclusive clubs where rules blurred and money talked louder than morals.

“I don’t know,” she murmured.

“Pay is double the standard rate,” Selene added smoothly.

Images flashed through her mind: her father hunched over unpaid bills, the tuition portal glowing red on her laptop screen and the empty fridge at home.

Nyla closed her eyes.

“I’ll be there,” she said quietly.

“Good. I’ll text the address.”

The line went dead.

For a long moment, she just stood there while her phone was still pressed to her ear. Then she opened a ride app before she could change her mind.

………………..

The taxi dropped her in front of an unmarked black door tucked between two upscale buildings. Ferns framed the entrance under a faint crimson glow and a tiny camera lens watched from above.

Nyla smoothed her black T-shirt and jeans, suddenly wishing she owned something nicer.

Inside, the air felt different—cooler, perfumed, pulsing with low music. Soft laughter drifted through dim corridors draped in velvet.

Selene appeared almost instantly, tall and polished in a fitted red dress.

“You made it. Good.” She said, giving Nyla a quick once-over. 

Selene pressed a silver tray into Nyla’s hands. “Here’s the deal. Keep drinks flowing. Move fast. No chatting unless spoken to. No staring. Understand?”

Nyla nodded. “Yes.”

“Diamond Room tonight. Top-tier clients only.”

Her pulse quickened. “Who’s hosting?”

Selene hesitated, then leaned in slightly. “The gentleman in the silver mask. They call him Maestro.”

A chill slid down Nyla’s spine.

Even she had heard whispers of that name—powerful, untouchable, dangerous.

“Just do your job,” Selene continued. “Eyes down. Ears open. And remember—discretion is everything.”

Nyla swallowed. “Got it.”

The older woman gave her a thin smile. “Good girl.”

She gestured toward a velvet archway at the end of the hall. “They’re waiting.”

Nyla tightened her grip on the tray.

This was just a job, she told herself. Just one night. Just a way to pay bills and keep moving.

But as she stepped forward, the music was growing louder with every step and doubt crept in.

Nothing about this place felt ordinary.

At the curtain, she paused, drawing a slow breath.

Then, with her heart hammering in her chest, Nyla pushed the heavy fabric aside and stepped into the gilded dark.