The sky had already begun shifting into soft shades of gold and pink by the time Eurydice Santiago stepped out of Studio Lirio, slinging her bag over her shoulder. The day had passed in a blur of paint, customers, and setting up new exhibits, but now reality was sinking in.
I really have to go through with this, huh?
She sighed, adjusting her bag as she walked down the familiar streets toward the bus stop. Unlike her usual leisurely strolls, sketching the world in her mind, tonight she was heading straight into unknown territory—a world of wealth, elegance, and people who probably had personal assistants for their personal assistants.
The Montague Hotel.
Just the name carried an air of prestige. It was the kind of place that hosted the city’s elite, where luxury wasn’t just a statement but a lifestyle.
And she was about to walk right into it.
The moment she stepped out of the bus and onto the pristine pavement in front of the Montague Hotel, Eurydice felt the difference.
The towering glass building shimmered under the evening lights, its grand chandelier-lit lobby visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Every inch of the hotel radiated sophistication—from the pristine valet attendants to the rows of luxury cars parked at the entrance.
Her sneakers felt almost offensive against the perfectly polished marble steps.
What am I doing here?
For a second, she hesitated, gripping the strap of her bag. This world wasn’t hers. She belonged to paint-streaked clothes, cozy bakeries, and half-finished sketches—not this gleaming world of money and power.
But before she could turn and run, a familiar voice called out.
“There you are! Took you long enough.”
Eurydice turned to see Amelia Vasquez, already dressed in a crisp black-and-white uniform, waving her over.
“You look like you’re about to bolt,” Amelia teased. “Come on, it’s just one night. Think of it as a free peek into how the one percent lives.”
Eurydice let out a breath and followed Amelia inside.
Inside the employee lounge, the air buzzed with quiet chatter as a group of waiters and waitresses gathered around.
The space was a sharp contrast to the luxurious grandeur of the main hotel—plain walls, steel lockers, and a row of neatly pressed uniforms hanging on racks.
A no-nonsense man in his mid-forties, Manager Philip Gaines, stood at the front, clipboard in hand. His sharp gaze scanned the room, instantly silencing any side conversations.
“Alright, listen up,” Philip began, his tone brisk and authoritative. “We have exactly thirty minutes before the event begins, and I do not want any disasters tonight. Understood?”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the group.
Philip continued, ticking points off his list.
“First: Presentation.” He motioned to the uniforms. “Everyone should already be in proper attire—black slacks, white shirt, vest, and bow tie. No wrinkles, no stains, and for God’s sake, if you smell like cigarette smoke, fix it.”
Eurydice shifted uncomfortably, smoothing the front of her borrowed uniform. It felt stiff and formal, nothing like her usual loose sweaters and paint-splattered jeans.
Philip’s eyes landed on her, and she straightened instinctively. “You—new girl. Santiago, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You ever done serving work before?”
“…Not exactly.”
He sighed as if already anticipating a headache. “Alright. Then pay attention. The do’s and don’ts are simple.”
He raised a finger. “Do: Move quickly and quietly. Stay out of the guests’ conversations. Keep trays balanced, and for the love of all things holy, if you spill anything, make sure it’s not on a VIP.”
Eurydice swallowed. Great. I’m doomed.
Philip’s expression darkened. “Don’t: Speak unless spoken to. No gawking at celebrities or business moguls. No personal phones on the floor. And above all, do not engage with the guests beyond professional courtesy.”
He snapped his clipboard shut. “Any questions?”
Eurydice hesitated before raising a hand. “Uh… what happens if—hypothetically—someone spills wine on a millionaire?”
The room fell silent. A few waiters exchanged amused glances.
Philip, however, looked unimpressed. “Then you pray they’re in a good mood.”
Eurydice groaned. Fantastic.
Amelia nudged her, whispering, “Relax. Just keep your head down and don’t drop anything.”
Eurydice sighed. Easier said than done.
Philip clapped his hands once. “Alright. Everyone, grab your trays. The guests will be arriving in fifteen minutes.
Move.”
The grand ballroom of the Montague Hotel was something out of a dream—if dreams smelled like expensive champagne, imported flowers, and old money.
Crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow over the guests, their designer gowns and tailored suits exuding effortless luxury. Soft classical music played in the background as servers—including Eurydice—moved swiftly between conversations, offering drinks and hors d’oeuvres to the city’s elite.
And Eurydice? She was doing her best to not drop a tray full of champagne.
“You’re staring,” Amelia Vasquez murmured beside her as they weaved through the crowd, trays in hand.
Eurydice blinked, snapping out of it. “I am not staring.”
“You totally are.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Of course she was staring. This was not her world. Everything about the Montague Hotel’s gala screamed power, from the custom floral arrangements on each table to the way guests laughed as if money solved all their problems.
And then, as if the night wanted to make her even more uncomfortable, Amelia stiffened beside her.
“Oh. Oh.”
“What?” Eurydice whispered.
“Conrad Montague. Dead ahead.”
Eurydice followed her gaze—and instantly regretted it.
There, standing near the main lounge area, was Conrad Montague himself, deep in conversation with two other men in equally expensive suits.
Even in a room full of high society, he stood out.
Everything about him was sharp—his tailored black suit, his perfectly styled jet-black hair, and his piercing blue eyes that seemed to size up everything in the room with calculated precision.
The man exuded authority without needing to say a word.
And as if fate had a cruel sense of humor, his gaze flicked toward them.
Eurydice panicked. Don’t look suspicious. Just act normal.
Unfortunately, “acting normal” translated into gripping her tray so tightly that a champagne glass wobbled dangerously.
Amelia, of course, noticed.
“Relax,” she whispered, smirking. “It’s not like he’s going to fire you on sight.”
Eurydice shot her a glare. “That doesn’t help.”
Conrad’s attention shifted back to his conversation, his expression unreadable. But even from a distance, Eurydice could tell—he wasn’t the type of man who let things go unnoticed.
Taking a deep breath, she steadied her tray and forced herself to focus.
Just serve the drinks. Don’t make a scene. Don’t stare at the billionaire.
Simple.
At least, that was the plan.
Too bad fate had other ideas.