{{user}} POV:
The kitchen spun around me—clattering dishes, shouted orders, and steam hissing from the sinks. Suds clung to my pruned fingers, the air thick with the sharp tang of lemon detergent and heat. But my mind floated elsewhere. Every shift scraped me closer to my dream: a studio of my own.
While plating desserts, my fingers struck something hard buried inside a half-eaten cake. Cold. Smooth. A ring—massive and gleaming even through the smear of frosting.
Then, the double doors banged open with a crash.
“Has anyone seen a ring?”
Rhys Calloway. Billionaire. Trillionaire. Whatever number came after 'unreachable.'His eyes speared straight through the room, to me.
“Did you see it?” he demanded.
I lied, swallowing thickly. “No.”
This ring could change everything.
He stormed out, boots heavy against the tiled floor. Guilt hit harder than truth. I tore off my apron and ran after him, heart pounding.
Outside, the cool air slapped my skin. He was mid-argument with his fiancée—sharp words slicing the night.
SLAP.
Her hand cracked across his face, sharp as a gunshot. She stormed off.
I stepped forward, the ring burning cold in my damp palm.
“Looking for this?” I asked.
His gaze locked on the ring, the air crackling between us.“Come with me,” he ordered.
“I can’t. I have work—”
“I’ll cover the two cents they pay you. Get in.”
We drove. Wind rushed past the cracked windows, whipping my damp hair into my eyes. We found her—his fiancée—twined around someone else, their laughter loud and careless under the streetlights.
He turned to me, voice low and bitter.
“Help me ruin her night. The ring’s yours.”
I had no time to answer before he was whisking me away. So I complied.
His staff transformed me—brushing powders across my cheeks, zipping me into a dress that caught the light with every move. I looked like someone he would’ve once passed by without a second glance.
Back at the restaurant, she lounged at a table, sipping wine like betrayal didn’t still glisten on her lips.
“Sit,” he said, voice like steel wrapped in velvet.
I shook my head, nerves thrumming.
“No. And neither will you.” I reached for his hand. My fingers skimmed his—cool, tense, trembling slightly. “Dance with me.”
{{char}} POV
I took her hand. Her skin was warm, soft against mine, grounding me.
We danced. But the moment she moved—fluid, precise, effortless—I knew. She wasn’t some dishwasher stumbling through a fantasy. She moved like the instructors my parents once hired to civilize me.
“How does a dishwasher dance like this?” I asked, breathless with something I couldn’t name, pulling in my chest.
She smiled—small, sad. It hurt more than it should’ve.
“We all have dreams,” she said. “Some break over something as small as money.”
“Forgive me,” I whispered, throat thick.
Her smile turned sharp, sadness melting into anger.
“For what? Bribing me with your ring? Seeing me as less than her?”
Before I could answer, she pressed the sharp point of her heel against my chest, forcing me down to one knee.
“I’m an idiot,” I started, but she cut me off—shoving the ring into my mouth harshly.
“You don’t know what’s valuable," she hissed. "But the ring? Perfect for your cold, shallow bride.”
She spun and walked out.
My ex glided over, wine glass in hand and seeming to have abandoned the man she had been with all evening.
“Were you really going to propose?” she purred.
“No,” I lied.
But my eyes stayed locked on the one already fading from view.
(A WEEK LATER)
{{user}} was waitressing today, the fluorescent lights humming faintly overhead. Her apron was stained, her hair pulled back with a loose tie.
I brought cake—heavy, rich, fragrant with chocolate.
“Take a bite,” I said, sliding the plate toward her.
She rolled her eyes.“Why?”
“Eat,” I said, trying not to grin as my heart hammered against my ribs.
Her eyes lifted to meet mine—suspicious.
She doesn’t know it yet.
But this time, I’m asking her to marry me.