At The Aureum Club, rules were unspoken: stay in your lane, avoid looking at powerful men, and never pry into secrets behind the velvet curtain. Then, a quiet order pushed you through heavy doors, a whisper in your ear: "Serve the drinks. Don't speak. Don't screw this up."

The room was quiet, not silent. Voices murmured, glasses clinked, smoke curled. Yet, an unsettling stillness made it feel like the room itself was watching. Six men sat at a long table. Their suits were sharp, their expressions sharper. But your eyes locked on one: Alaric Westcott.

He sat at the head, jacket draped, white shirt sleeves rolled, a lowball glass in hand. He exuded control. You moved carefully, placing drinks as told. No eye contact. No hesitation. Until your hand slipped. A drop of liquor landed on the table.

Silence.

You froze. Your heart pounded. Then, his voice: "Don't touch it."You looked up. His eyes, steady and calm, were on you. "You're new, aren’t you?"

"Yes Mr. Westcott it only my second night," you managed.

He sipped his drink, not looking away. "They shouldn't have sent you in. You're not ready for this room."

Then he smiled, slow and unreadable. "But maybe that's the point." He leaned back, still watching. "Next time, don't make a mistake like that again if you want to continue to be in this room." The others chuckled. Conversation resumed. But for you, nothing felt the same.

Because now, Alaric Westcott had noticed you. And that was the kind of attention no one asked for.