Chapter 1 - The Weight of a Glass|
The air inside the Ashford Grand Hotel smelled of white lilies, expensive perfume, and old money.
I stood behind the silver serving cart, smoothing the front of my black uniform apron. My feet were throbbing through thin-soled shoes. I’d been awake since four in the morning, scrubbing marble tiles in the west wing, carrying heavy laundry hampers, and hauling stacks of crystal glassware up to the penthouse ballroom.
"Sophia, pay attention," whispered Maria, one of the senior housekeepers, as she straightened my collar. "Tonight isn't a normal shift. Mr. Ashford is hosting three hundred people. Half of them are corrupt, and the other half are dangerous."
"I know," I said quietly. "I just need to finish this event and get my overtime."
My mind wasn't on the chandeliers or the celebrities floating through the room. It was on my phone in my locker down in the basement. I was waiting for a text from my mother. My younger brother Mateo needed a new prescription inhaler—one our cheap insurance refused to cover—and our landlord had just tacked an extra two hundred dollars onto our monthly rent for 'building maintenance.'
If I lost this job, my family wouldn't make it to December.
I picked up a tray loaded with slender champagne flutes, keeping my spine straight and my shoulders low.
Across the room, Alexander Ashford stood near the grand archway. At thirty-two, he looked less like an executive and more like a predator in a tailored Italian suit. He was the sole heir to the Ashford empire—a network that controlled shipping docks, luxury real estate, and private security across the East Coast. People called him the King of Manhattan, but the staff knew the truth: he was a mafia boss whose enemies disappeared into the Hudson River.
Beside him stood Victoria Lane, his newly announced fiancée. She wore a pale blue silk gown that flowed like water, draped in diamonds that caught the light with every turn. She was smiling for the society photographers, but every time a waiter passed her, her eyes turned cold as ice.
"Excuse me," a soft voice squeaked beside me.
It was Jamie, a nineteen-year-old seasonal hire who was carrying a tray twice his size. His hands were trembling so hard the glasses rattled against each other.
"Careful, Jamie," I said softly, stepping back to give him room. "Take a breath."
"I'm trying, Sophia," he whimpered. "If I drop anything, the manager said he’ll fire me on the spot."
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Just as Jamie took another step, a guest in a tuxedo backed up without looking. Jamie gasped, losing his balance. His heavy tray swerved straight toward mine.
Two glasses tipped toward the marble floor.
