Crystal chandeliers hung over tables covered in white linen. Women in glittering gowns laughed beneath soft golden lights while men in tailored suits discussed donations larger than anything I expected to earn in years.
I moved between them in black trousers and a white shirt, balancing champagne glasses on a silver tray.
I had skipped lunch because the catering uniform had become too tight around the waist.
By nine that evening, I was dizzy.
My feet felt as though I were walking on broken glass.
That was when Russell first spoke to me.
He was tall, distinguished, with silver beginning to spread through his dark hair. His suit looked expensive without trying to look expensive.
He reached for a glass of champagne, then stopped.
Instead of taking it, he looked at my face.
“What’s your name?”
“Elena.”
“Elena,” he repeated, as though my name deserved his full attention.
Then his eyes dropped briefly toward my shoes.
