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1
Sydney
As I weave through the opulent ballroom, my silver tray balanced expertly on my fingertips, I can't help but marvel at the sheer excess surrounding me. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the sea of black ties and shimmering evening gowns, their light catching on diamond necklaces and glinting off Rolexes. It's a world so far removed from my tiny walk-up apartment and mountain of student debt that it might as well be another planet.
I adjust my posture for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, feeling the pinch of too-tight shoes and the constant ache in my lower back. My catering uniform—a crisp white shirt and fitted black slacks—feels like a costume, and a cheap one at that in all this opulence. It makes every gaze skip over me like I'm nothing but another piece of furniture.
But that's the point, isn't it? To blend in, to become part of the background at these glittering events where the rich and powerful play their games.
I'm used to being invisible at these high-society events, just another faceless server gliding between clusters of the elite. But tonight, something feels different. The air crackles with an unfamiliar tension, electric and dangerous. My skin prickles with awareness as I navigate the crowded space, offering flutes of champagne with practiced ease.
"Syd!" A sharp whisper catches my attention. I turn to see Megan, my fellow server and closest thing to a friend in this job, gesturing urgently from near the kitchen doors.
I make my way over, careful not to jostle my precariously balanced tray. "What's up?"
Megan's eyes are wide, a mixture of excitement and trepidation. "You'll never guess who just arrived," she hisses, leaning in close. "Avros Petrov himself!"
My breath catches. Everyone in the city knows that name, spoken in equal parts admiration and fear. The Russian business tycoon who rose from nothing to build an empire, his influence stretching into every corner of our lives. Rumors swirl about his methods, about the dark underbelly of his success, but nothing's ever been proven.
"I thought this was his party," I whisper back, confused. "At his mansion."
Megan rolls her eyes. "Yeah, but you know how these bigwigs are. Show up fashionably late to their own events, make a grand entrance. If they even show up at all. But listen," she grabs my arm, her voice dropping even lower. "Be careful out there, okay? I overheard some of the security guys talking. Apparently, there's been some kind of threat against Petrov. That's why there are so many armed men around."
As if to emphasize her point, a group of men with slicked-back hair and predatory smiles passes by. I can't help but notice the telltale bulge beneath their impeccably tailored jackets. The shadow of a piece, poorly concealed, like they don’t even care if everyone knows they’re carrying. Or maybe they want us to know. My heart rate quickens.
"Jesus," I breathe. "What have we gotten ourselves into?"
Megan shrugs, but I can see the worry in her eyes. "Just keep your head down and do your job. We're here to serve drinks, not get caught up in whatever's going on. Now come on, your tray's looking a little empty."
As she helps me reload with fresh champagne flutes, I try to shake off the growing sense of unease. This job might not be glamorous, but it pays well enough to keep me afloat while I try to find something better. I can't afford to lose it because I got spooked by some rich guy's drama.
Back out on the floor, the steady hum of conversation washes over me. It's a blend of languages that speaks to the international nature of tonight's gathering. But one tongue dominates—the harsh, rolling syllables of Russian. It seems to come from every direction, accompanied by the clink of glasses and the rustle of expensive fabric.
I catch snippets of gossip as I move through the crowd, offering drinks with a polite smile:
"Did you hear about the judge who suddenly dropped that case against Petrov Industries?"
"I heard his daughter got into Harvard. Full ride. Funny timing, don't you think?"
"Shh! You know better than to talk about such things. The walls have ears..."
Each whispered comment adds to the growing knot of tension in my stomach. I've always known, in an abstract way, about the corruption that oils the wheels of high society. But being in the middle of it, hearing it firsthand... it makes me feel dirty somehow. Complicit.
As I approach a secluded alcove, partially hidden by a lush potted palm, a deep voice stops me in my tracks.
"The verdictmustbe not guilty, do you understand?"
I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. That voice—I'd know it anywhere, even though I've only heard it on the news. Avros Petrov himself.
"My brother walks free, or your own skeletons might find their way out of the closet, Judge."
The threat in his low, accented voice is unmistakable. My mind reels as I process what I've just overheard. Jury tampering. Blackmail. The kind of thing that could ruin careers and lives if it ever came to light. My career, most easily of all.
I should leave. Now. Before I'm noticed. But my feet seem rooted to the spot, my body betraying my mind's frantic commands to flee.
"You can't do this," another voice hisses, trembling with a mixture of fear and indignation. "It's not right. The evidence?—"
"The evidence is whatever I say it is," Petrov cuts him off, his tone icy. "You've taken my money for years, Judge. Did you really think there wouldn't be a price? You’ve sold your soul, and it’s time to pay up.”
