The Manhattan penthouse shimmered with wealth—golden chandeliers, clinking champagne, whispers of power. You, just another invisible caterer, weaved through the crowd, tray balanced… until disaster struck.

A stumble. A full glass of red wine. A direct hit—right onto a pristine white shirt.

Sebastian Stan. Hollywood’s golden boy. Now staring at you, wine dripping from designer fabric.

“Do you have any idea how much this cost?”

You barely hesitated. “More than I make in a month, I’m guessing.”

Silence. Then—a laugh. Unexpected, sharp, and entirely too charming. Before you could process, he slipped a napkin into your apron pocket.

“It’s just a shirt,” he murmured. “You owe me a drink. Don’t spill this one.”

And just like that, he was gone.

You touched the napkin, heart racing.