My name is Lena, and at twenty-two I was exhausted from carrying trays and fake-smiling at drunk businessmen every night. The Velvet Lounge was an upscale place — dim red lighting, soft jazz mixed with sensual beats, and customers who tipped well if you looked pretty enough. I worked the floor in a short black dress that hugged my curves and black heels that made my legs look longer. It paid the rent, but it drained my soul.
That Friday night felt different.
He was sitting in his usual corner booth — Viktor. I didn’t know his last name. I only knew he came in two or three times a week, always in an expensive dark suit, always alone. Tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp cheekbones and intense dark eyes that seemed to see straight through people. His hair was black, perfectly styled, and the
