The second brushed against my lips.

The third floated down between my hands and landed in a glass of champagne.

Then the wealthy woman in the crimson-red dress threw the rest of the money into the air and laughed.

"Pick it up, sweetheart. That's probably more than you make in a month."

For one horrible second, nobody in the ballroom moved.

A hundred elegantly dressed guests sat beneath enormous crystal chandeliers, surrounded by white roses, polished silverware, and champagne glasses that cost more than most restaurant workers earned in an afternoon.

A string quartet had been playing near the marble staircase.

The violinist stopped first.

Then the cellist lowered his bow.

The sudden silence seemed to make the falling banknotes louder as they brushed against tablecloths, plates, and the polished floor.

I stood beside the head table holding a silver serving tray.

My fingers tightened around its handles.

The woman who had thrown the money was sixty-two years old, with a perfectly styled blonde bob, expensive diamond earrings, and three strands of white pearls resting against her crimson satin dress. Her makeup was immaculate, her posture rigid, and her expression carried the unmistakable satisfaction of someone who believed she had just reminded a lesser person of her place.

She was the principal investor behind the most anticipated fashion launch in Manhattan that year.

Her company controlled a luxury retail empire.

Her photographs appeared in financial magazines.

She hosted charity galas attended by politicians, celebrities, and people whose names were regularly followed by the word billionaire.

She had spent nearly forty years convincing everyone around her that money was the most reliable measure of human importance.

And now she was looking at me as though I were a stain on her expensive evening.

"Well?" she demanded.

I didn't move.

She leaned forward.

"Are you deaf?"

A few people looked away.

Others watched with uncomfortable fascination.

A young server standing near the wine station had gone completely pale.

The wealthy woman pointed toward the floor.

"I said pick it up."

I looked down at the scattered bills.

Then slowly raised my eyes.

"I'm not picking up money you've thrown at me."

Her expression changed.

For a moment, she appeared genuinely surprised.

Then she laughed.

"Oh, that's precious."

She turned toward the man seated beside her.

"Did you hear that? The waitress has principles."

A few guests gave nervous smiles.

Nobody laughed openly.

The woman noticed.

Her face hardened.

She looked back at me.

"You're being paid to serve this table, aren't you?"

I kept my voice steady.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then serve it."

She gestured toward the floor.

"Start there."

I took a breath.

My hands were beginning to shake.

Not from fear.

From anger.

I had spent years learning how to remain composed when people assumed they were entitled to humiliate me.

But there was something uniquely disgusting about watching a room full of wealthy adults pretend not to notice another human being being degraded in front of them.

I was twenty-eight years old, five feet eight inches tall, with fair skin, blue-gray eyes, and extraordinarily thick platinum-blonde hair styled in long, cascading waves over one shoulder.

I wore a fitted pale-butter-yellow gown with a softly twisted sweetheart bodice, a ruched waist, and a flowing ankle-length skirt. A delicate diamond necklace rested against my collarbone, and my pointed heels sparkled beneath the chandelier light.

I knew I looked unusual for a waitress.

That was deliberate.

The gala's service staff had been dressed in elegant clothing chosen to match the evening's fashion presentation. The hosts wanted the entire event to resemble a living luxury advertisement, with attendants moving gracefully between tables as though they belonged to the collection itself.

The pale-yellow gown had been fitted for me that morning.

Its construction was exquisite.

Every seam followed the body precisely.

The fabric moved beautifully.

And I knew more about the garment than anyone else in the ballroom.

Because I had designed it.

But the wealthy woman didn't know that.