Ordered To Serve His Mistress: Heiress's Revenge

Returning with the cigarettes and a pack of matches, I placed them on the table. Jaden didn't bother to look up from her phone. "Light it," she said. I stood there, motionless. "I said light it." She looked up then, her eyes heavy with bored malice. I struck a match. The flame flared to life, smelling sharp of sulfur. I held it out. She leaned in, inhaling deeply, before blowing smoke directly into my face. "See?" she smirked. "You can be useful." I didn't cough. I didn't blink. I just turned and walked back to the service station. Ten minutes later, the bartender handed me the Espresso Martini. It wasn't in a chilled glass; steam curled from the dark liquid. "She sent the last two back," he muttered, wiping the counter aggressively. "Said they were too cold. How can a martini be too cold? So I steamed the damn thing. Let's see her complain now." "She's not drinking them," I said. "She's playing." "She asked for you specifically," he warned. "Said she wanted the incompetent one." I took the tray. My hand was steady, but inside, I was tallying the debt. Every insult. Every violation of protocol. It was all going into a ledger that would be paid in blood. I walked down the VIP corridor. Jaden saw me coming and stood up, blocking my path. She swayed a little, feigning more intoxication than she felt. "Finally," she slurred. I held the tray out. "Your drink." She didn't take the glass. Instead, she reached out and grabbed my free hand. Her fingers dug into my palm with unnecessary force. She flipped my hand over, inspecting the calluses on my fingertips. "Look at these rough hands," she laughed, loud enough for the nearby tables to turn and look. "Working hands. Peasant hands." They were creator's calluses. From paintbrushes. From charcoal. From sculpting clay. Things she would never understand, nor possess the soul to appreciate. "You're nothing," she whispered, leaning close enough that I could smell the expensive wine on her breath. "I own this city. You're just the help." "Let go," I said. "Make me." She looked at the steaming martini on the tray. Then she looked at me. A cruel smile spread across her face. She brought her hand up and slapped the bottom of the tray. Hard. The glass tipped. The scalding coffee and vodka splashed over my hand. The tray shattered on the floor. The pain was instant-a white-hot shock that stole the air from my lungs. My skin blistered immediately under the assault of the liquid heat. I didn't scream. Shaws don't scream. I dropped the tray, clutching my wrist, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The lounge went silent. Jaden jumped back, pantomiming horror. "Oh my god!" she shrieked. "She threw it at me! Did you see that? She tried to burn me!" I looked at my hand. The skin was seared angry red, peeling in spots. The smell of burnt coffee and scorched flesh filled the air. Mark came running. He looked at the broken glass. He looked at Jaden, who was clutching her pearls, completely dry. Then he looked at me. He saw the burns. He saw the steam rising from my skin. But he looked back at Jaden. "Are you okay, Miss Juarez?" "She's crazy!" Jaden yelled. "Fire her! I want her gone!" Mark turned to me. His eyes were hard. He made his choice. Politics over truth. Revenue over decency. "Clean this up," he barked at me. "And get out. You're done." "She burned me," I said. My voice was quiet. Deadly. "Don't lie," Mark spat. "I saw you trip. You're clumsy and you're a liability. Get to the kitchen. Get out of my sight." He didn't offer ice. He didn't call a medic. He ordered the victim to hide so the aggressor could be comfortable. I looked at Mark. I memorized the lines of his face. I would remember him when the purge began. "Okay," I said. I walked toward the kitchen. My hand was on fire. But my spine had turned to steel.