Faking love with ceo

The crystal flute slid from Lina Carter's fingers, slick with condensation from the ice bucket. She did not have to be carrying the bottle of vintage champagne. That was reserved for the senior staff. But Marco had called in sick and the manager's gaze had fallen upon her. "Don't drop it", he had said.

The ballroom was a dreamland of light and whispered power. A thousand candles, reflected in mirrors, and gowns flowing past her, each costing more than a year's rent. She straightened her back, keeping a sharp eye on the sparkling path between the guests, counting her steps. Ten more laps with this tray. Then down to water. Then maybe her feet wouldn't feel like they were bleeding.

She saw him before he saw her.

Alexander Knight was at the center of a loose circle of old men with their backs to the grand piano. He was younger than them. They leaned in. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't waving. He was speaking. And the world bent right toward the sound of his voice. He was wearing a tuxedo that looked like it had been painted on him. Sculpture of midnight wool and white linen. His hair was dark. Swept back from a forehead that seemed to be permanently etched along the corner with an impatient line. Lina's tray shook. She held on tighter. She was walking close to the circle. She stared at a space of empty air beyond his shoulder. She was holding her breath. She was a ghost. That was the rule.

Three steps away a man in a tailcoat burst out laughing, loud booming laughter, throwing his head back. Three steps away he took a step, a step, his arm out to the side swinging.

The edge of his elbow struck Lina's tray with a soft horrid clink.

Time didn't slow. It burst.

The flutes weren't empty. Three of them were full. They were teetering on the edge of the polished silver with gold liquid sloshing over the rims.

She tried to yank the tray back, to steady it, but it was too late, her wrist was already turning, the weight shifting.

Silence. The fall sparkling with light.

The champagne shot into the light of the candles. The shower of water, a beautiful tragedy, caught Alexander Knight across the chest and shoulder as he was half turned talking, the cold expensive shock of it sent a full-body recoil that was more violent than a shout.

Silence.

The champagne ran down his chin. It made his white shirt see-through, clinging it to his skin. It stained the perfect wool of his jacket in ugly spreading blotches. A single lemon twist came to rest on his front and softly plopped on the polished parquet.

Lina stood with her hand still outstretched, holding the lopsided and now empty tray. Her heart was a bird that had gone mad and flown up her ribs. The cold from the ice bucket water ran up her sleeve.

He stared down at himself. Slowly. He stared at the stain and at the lemon twist at his feet. And when he looked up to meet hers, the storm in his eyes made her feel as if the air itself had been taken out of the room. They weren't angry. They were shocked. Then furious. Then... ice. Calculating deadly ice that could see every thread of her cheap uniform, every pound she needed to earn.

""You," he hushed. Not loudly. But with the kind of force that reaches every corner of the hushed ballroom.

The spell was broken. The room erupted in a chorus of high-pitched whispers. A woman gasped and began to clutch her pearls. The laughing man who'd done it had turned as white as a sheet, and had melted back into the crowd.

Her manager, Mr. Henderson, was there in a heartbeat, as if he'd been lurking in the shadows, a pale ghost of doom. "Mr. Kniht! My most deep-rooted, my most sincerest, this stupid girl, she's chopped..! "

"Get her out." Alexander's voice was husky, but he wasn't looking at the manager. He wasn't looking anywhere but at Lina. He held her gaze hostage. He snatched the soaked handkerchief from his breast pocket and laid it on the puddle at his feet. A final dismissal. "Now."

Henderson's fingers dug into the soft flesh of her upper arm, yanking her off-balance. The tray clattered to the floor. The sound was monstrous in the quiet. She was dragged, stumbling, her heels catching on the rug. The faces blurred as she passed, curious, amused, pitying. She was a spectacle. The clumsy waitress who had baptized the king.

The kitchen doors swung shut, cutting off the gala's light and heat. The sudden roar of the industrial fans, the shouts of the cooks, the clang of pots, it was all a deafening cacophony after that tomb-silence.

Henderson didn't stop. He marched her past the steaming dish pits, past the line cooks who didn't bother to look up, down a narrow, greasy corridor to a door marked 'Private.'

He shoved her inside his tiny, cluttered office. "You stupid girl," he hissed, spittle landing on his chin. "Do you have any idea what you've done? That man owns the building this restaurant is in! He could have us closed with a phone call!"

"I'm sorry," she whispered, the words ash in her mouth. "He bumped into me"

"Don't you dare!" he roared, slamming his hand on the desk. "Your tips are gone. Your wages for tonight are gone. Consider it a donation to the dry-cleaning bill he'll send us, which will probably be more than you're worth." He ripped a form from a pad. "Sign this. Termination for gross misconduct."

With numb fingers, she signed. He snatched the paper, then opened a small, battered safe. He pulled out a single twenty-pound note and threw it onto the desk. It fluttered, then lay still. "Get out. And if I see you near this place again, I'll call the police."

The service entrance door was heavy steel. She had to shove her whole weight against it to get out. The cold night air hit her like a slap. The door clanged shut behind her, the final sound of her old life ending.

The alley was dark, reeking of rotten produce and diesel. The distant sound of the gala's string quartet floated over the wall, a cruel, beautiful mockery.

She leaned her forehead against the cold brick. The single twenty-pound note was crumpled in her white-knuckled fist. The rent was due tomorrow. Her mother's prescription needed refilling. The hospital had called just yesterday.

A sob climbed her throat, raw and tearing. She choked it back, swallowing the salt and the shame. She wouldn't cry. She couldn't afford the weakness.

From the other side of the high wall, she heard the smooth purr of engines starting. The guests were leaving. She pushed herself upright, turning to go.

At the mouth of the alley, where the streetlights began, a long, black car idled silently. The rear window was tinted, impenetrable. But as she watched, frozen, the window slid down.

Inside the dim interior, she saw the profile of a man, his face illuminated by the soft glow of a phone screen. It was him. Alexander Knight. He had changed his jacket and shirt.

He turned his head. Slowly. His eyes met hers across the distance, through the dirty London night.

He didn't smile. He didn't frown. He just stared. As if she were an ugly, unwelcome equation he had made an impromptu decision to solve.

Then the window pulled up, and the car became a dark, mortified block. The note of the engine deepened, and it pulled back, smooth, quietly, out of the flow of other cars.

Lina was cold, dark, alone, the echo of that staring colder than the wind. It was not over. She could feel it in the marrow of her bones. To him, it had only just begun.