9. The Bitter Taste Of Envy

Throughout the night, Ann moved back and forth between the main floor and the exclusive VIP lounge like a silent current, steady and fluid, never missing a beat. The tray balanced on her hand had become second nature, but what made her steps feel unusually light was not the routine—it was the unexpected shift in power. For once, she wasn’t the butt of the joke, the charity case, or the outsider. Tonight, she was center stage.

But her shine didn’t go unnoticed.

The glares came first, cold and sharp. Then came the whispers, hot with venom, thick with resentment. The other waitresses watched with bitter eyes as she slipped in and out of the VIP lounge, her smile lingering longer than necessary and her presence glowing brighter than it had any right to.

“She gets the billionaire table?” Lola hissed, her voice dripping with disbelief and rage. She adjusted her corset top for the fourth time that night, her foundation melting slightly from the kitchen heat and fury combined. “I can’t believe it. I put on lashes for this job tonight. Lashes! I walk around in heels so high my knees tremble—and the wretch who wears flats gets the VIPs? Those guys must be blind.”

The girls around her nodded in agreement, their expressions set in identical shades of envy. It tasted very bitter on their tongues. They’d made it clear from the start—they didn’t like Ann, didn’t want her there, and certainly didn’t believe she belonged in their polished, competitive world. The only person who thought otherwise was Peter, and now, more than ever, they resented him for it.

“She probably begged Peter to give her the VIP table,” one girl muttered under her breath, pretending to wipe down menus but really just watching Ann. “It’s favoritism. I bet she didn’t even know who those guys were until they walked in.”

“She’s nothing special,” another added. “Just lucky. This kind of luck doesn’t last.”

But Ann didn’t hear a word of it. She was too busy navigating the lounge like a dancer in rhythm with music only she could hear, balancing tension and charm with a precision that came from years of pretending she belonged in places she never had access to. And despite the whispers and sharp glares, her steps never faltered. Not even once.

The tip jar in her apron was growing heavy, but it wasn’t the money that kept her smiling. It was the way Rex’s plan had failed right in front of him. That was the real victory.

She hadn’t expected his friends to be warm, let alone kind, but they were. And to her own surprise, she liked them too. They were nothing like the arrogant billionaire stereotype Judith had always swooned over in magazines and interviews. They were weird and funny and oddly sweet. She hadn’t laughed that freely in ages. And Rex, the orchestrator of her public embarrassment, had sat sulking like a thundercloud, growing darker every time one of his friends smiled at her. It was poetic.

When the four of them finally left the VIP lounge, it was like watching a scene from a dream unfold. The three young men walked ahead with relaxed grace, chatting amongst themselves as if Ann had always been a part of their world. She trailed just behind them, still in conversation with one of them—King Hin—who grinned at her like she was the most fascinating thing he’d ever encountered. His laugh echoed down the hallway, light and carefree. The fourth man—Rex—walked ahead of them all with a scowl etched into his perfect features. He hadn’t said a word since they’d left the lounge, and Ann could tell he was simmering.

The waitresses outside stood in stunned silence, watching the scene unfold with wide eyes and slack jaws. They looked like dolls on a shelf—perfectly dressed, perfectly poised—and completely irrelevant. Not a single one of those billionaire boys glanced in their direction.

Ann’s face glowed with satisfaction as she watched them walk out into the night. She stood for a moment, basking in it, then whispered to herself, “So nice… it’s been so long since I laughed like this. Since I felt anything that wasn’t survival or shame.” Her hand clutched the wad of bills in her apron. “I can’t believe I got paid this much just to witness his plan blow up in his face. And now… now his friends like me. I can’t wait to see the look on his face at school. Silent vengeance is so much sweeter.”

She giggled to herself, giddy with adrenaline and vindication, as she leaned against the wall and began counting the bills.

“You seem happy,” a familiar voice said behind her. She jumped, startled, and turned to find Peter watching her with a raised brow.

“Peter!” she exclaimed, barely able to contain her excitement. “Peter, oh my God! I got a tip—no, listen—I got a tip of three thousand dollars. Three! From just that one room! One thousand dollars each!”

Peter blinked. “Three?”

“Yes!” she nodded, bouncing on her toes. “Isn’t it insane?”

He chuckled, his deep voice warm, but a wrinkle of confusion crossed his face. “Wait a second. Weren’t there four of them?”

Ann’s smile faltered for half a second before she shrugged. “Yeah. But the fourth one—you know, the grumpy one—Rex? He didn’t leave anything. He was mad. Apparently, he brought them here to torment me or something, but it totally backfired. Now his friends like me, and he’s sulking like a kid who lost his toy.” She snorted with laughter.

Peter didn’t join her. His smile had slipped away completely now.

“Ann,” he said carefully, “that’s not something to laugh about. Rex… his father is one of the most powerful men in this country. He’s dangerous in ways you don’t even know. You need to be careful.”

Ann’s joy dulled, but she nodded, trying not to let the warning sink too deeply into her chest. “I know, I know,” she said lightly, “but I’ll avoid him, I promise. I’ll focus on my studies, keep to myself. No drama.”

Peter gave her a dry look. “Sure.”

“What?” she asked with mock offense.

“Nothing,” he said, waving her off. “Just… I’ve heard that promise before.”

The rest of her shift passed in a blur. After waiting on her remaining tables with a smile that felt easier now, lighter, more real, Ann finally slipped into the back room to collect her bag and change out of her uniform. The waitresses glared as she passed. Lola hissed something under her breath—Ann didn’t bother listening. She was too tired, too satisfied, and far too above their noise to care.

They had planned to corner her after her shift. To confront her, mock her, maybe even find some ridiculous excuse to humiliate her. But Peter ruined their plans when he pulled up in his car and offered to drive Ann home.

“It’s late,” he’d said simply, loud enough for the others to hear. “You’re not walking.”

The glare Lola sent her could’ve set fire to silk, but Ann simply smiled, climbed into the car, and waved as they drove off. She didn’t look back.

The ride home was quiet but warm. Peter kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting against the window. He didn’t speak much—he never did—but his presence said enough. He was the older brother she’d never had. Protective. Constant. A quiet shield in a world that often felt like it wanted to devour her whole.

When they finally pulled up to her place, Ann thanked him, hopped out, and walked up the steps with a tired kind of joy humming through her bones. The night had been long, but for once, it hadn’t drained her completely. She was exhausted, yes, but in a strangely full way.

After locking the door behind her, she kicked off her shoes, dropped her bag on the couch, and stumbled toward the bathroom. The mirror showed her a flushed, slightly sweaty face—her eyes wide, her smile faded but soft. She took a deep breath, then stepped into the shower, letting the warm water wash the night off her skin and the tension from her shoulders.

Later, wrapped in an old oversized T-shirt, she reheated some leftover jollof rice, scarfed it down without even tasting it, and crawled into bed. The sheets were cool and familiar. Her pillow smelled like detergent and something faintly sweet.

She curled up tightly, the envelope of tips tucked under her arm like a secret, and for the first time in weeks, she didn’t dream of shadows or shame.

She slept like a child, like someone who had finally, if only for a night, won.