Three Years Later
The wineglass trembled slightly in her grip, but she didn't flinch.
"Table seven wants another bottle of red," her manager said, not bothering to look her in the eye.
"On it," she murmured, voice steady, as always.
She wasn't the naive and weak Rosetta Black anymore. Not that crying girl in the blood-stained wedding dress. Not the heiress of the Black fortune. She was just Rose.
She moved like smoke through the noise of the club, namely Club Del Amore. Low jazz was playing, glasses clinking, laughter hiding secrets. Rose didn't look too long at anyone, nor did she speak more than she had to. It was easier that way, in order to avoid trouble.
Her black uniform was simple, tight enough to flatter, and plain enough not to invite. A silver name tag gleamed over her chest, with just Rose.
She passed a table of older men, their eyes following her like heat trails. One of them leaned forward slightly when she was serving them, lips curling.
"You've got a killer smile, sweetheart," he said, eyes lingering where they shouldn't.
She glanced at him once, no warmth in her expression, only the hint of a tired smirk. "Thanks," she said coolly, and walked on without pause.
At table three, a woman snapped her fingers and barked, "Miss, the ice melted in our whiskey. Again."
Rose nodded once, not bothering with an apology, and swept the glass off the table with practiced grace. There was no pushback or a single reaction. Just another night- loop in the endless cycle.
"Hey, Rosie." That was Kevin, one of the other waiters. He was new-ish, too talkative, and always smiling too hard. "You good covering the VIP corner again tonight?"
"Sure," she said, not meeting his gaze.
"You ever smile at anyone besides the wine rack?" The man teased.
She gave him a sideways glance. "Only if it pays overtime."
He laughed like it was the funniest thing he'd heard all night, but Rose just moved on, not paying any more attention to him.
At the bar, she picked up the fresh bottle and turned around to face the club again. Her eyes skimmed over the crowd, not searching for anyone in particular, just scanning by habit. That was all she ever did. Watch, move, deliver, and leave quietly or at most, a simple 'thanks'.
Rose's break was always at 11pm sharp. She always preferred night shifts. She took her twenty minutes of peace in the staff resting quarters tucked behind the storage hallway.
She sat on the worn-out couch with her legs crossed, sipping lukewarm water from a white mug. The room was dim, just one overhead light flickering slightly, and the hum of the fridge the only constant.
When the timer on her phone buzzed, she stood up, stretched her legs lightly, and smoothed her skirt. Then, as routine demanded, she stepped out of the breakroom and headed back toward the club floor.
"Rose," came a sharp voice from down the hall, as soon as Rose emerged. It was the manager.
She turned, already halfway through tying her apron back on.
"Yes?"
"You're covering a VIP table. Right now."
She blinked once. "Okay. Which one?"
"The main one on the upper floor. The owner's suite."
That made her pause a bit. The owner's suite? Her eyes flicked up in mild surprise. That suite had a personal waiter, always male. It was common knowledge that no woman was allowed upstairs unless under very specific circumstances. But before she could say anything, her manager cut her off, irritation clear in his tone. "Don't ask questions. Just handle it."
"Got it." She took the order slip without another word. It was work, and she had to do it.
Carrying the tray with her usual composure, Rose made her way past the velvet cordon and up the discreet staircase that led to the private lounges. Soft lights lined the corridor, muffling the distant music from below.
Only once before had she been up here since she started working there, and that was a week ago, by mistake. Something had happened up there, minor, maybe, but unforgettable. Luckily, no one seemed to catch on. Still, she remembered every detail.
Rose stopped outside the grand, half-frosted door. She took a breath, then pushed it open gently with her shoulder.
Inside, the lighting was low, and she spotted shadows playing along the edges of the sleek black and gold décor. The room smelled of something expensive, with oakwood and sandalwood, maybe a hint of cigars.
There were four men seated around the table. They were all young, in their early or late twenties maybe, also sharply dressed. They exuded that quiet kind of power that didn't need to raise its voice. She was once like them.
And the moment she entered, they all turned to look at her. They were just quiet, with assessing gazes.
Rose held the tray steady, stepping in with poise. "Your drinks," she said simply, moving to the table with the quiet grace of someone used to being looked at, but never truly seen.
She began setting the glasses down one by one. Still, she could feel their eyes on her—not in the usual, predatory way. This was something else she couldn't quite discern, but she didn't flinch nor meet any of their gazes.
That was until a deep and somehow achingly familiar voice spoke, slightly amused. "So… they send you now?"
Rose's hands remained steady as she placed the last glass down. She wasn't one to react impulsively when faced by a shocking or surprising event.
She finally lifted her head and turned slightly in the direction the voice came from.
Leaning casually outside the washroom door at the far end of the suite stood a man dressed in all black. He was in slim-fit trousers, while his shirt sleeves were rolled up just enough to show a silver watch glinting under the warm light. Though his face was half-shadowed, she knew it was him.
Her brow twitched, but she didn't panic nor gasp. She wore a cool frown then uttered a single, flat word.
"You." It was more a statement than a question.
The man pushed off the wall, walking toward her with an air that wasn't arrogant but deeply assured. Like someone who knew every step he took would echo with power and dominance.
Rose didn't move but only watched as he neared, stopping a few feet away.
And just like that—without permission, the memory came flooding back.
***
Flashback: A Week Ago
It was late. Rose had taken a wrong turn on her way to drop off the laundry receipts to the back office. She wasn't even supposed to be on the upper floor. A new security guard had nodded her through without question, and she'd assumed there was a staff shortcut through the side corridor.
But instead, she had pushed open the wrong door. And there, she saw a lone silhouette seated on a couch in the owner's suite, with a glass of dark liquor in one hand and a small, silver blade twisting slowly in the other, like he was thinking through something dangerous.
He hadn't looked surprised when she walked in. He just raised an eyebrow and said calmly, "You are not supposed to be here, sweetheart.
Rose had stared at him for a breath too long. Not because he was handsome or anything, though he was, but because something about him felt… known. Unsettlingly known.
"Didn't know the cleaning staff got this bold," he added, standing.
Rose didn't speak or back away either. She just stared blankly at the man, deciphering how she had gotten to the wrong room. Maybe because she was not yet accustomed to the place. After all, she had only been there for two months now.
"You're not going to scream?" he asked, as if testing her.
"No," she replied. "Should I?"
That made him smile, just a little. Like her answer entertained him more than it should have.
Then a voice crackled over the intercom outside, and footsteps passed. Rose had turned to leave without another word.
But before she did, he called out. "Wait."
She had paused at the door waiting to hear what he had to say. But instead, he stood up and unhurriedly walked toward her. He was just a little distance away when Rose turned around and collided with him.
"I'm... sorry," Rose's posture broke when she saw she had knocked the glass of wine he was holding, and drenched him.
In a moment of panic, she tried to blot the crimson wine from his shirt, but it had already soaked in, staining deeper than it should
"I... I..." She stammered unaware of what to say.
The man let out a deep groan, and another. Rose gasped and gazed up to meet his eyes. She got lost for a moment until she saw him looking at her with narrowed, accusing eyes. It was then she realized the position of her hands. Both were trembling a bit on his chest. She immediately retracted them and also stepped back without a word.
Rose cursed inwardly for losing her composure for a moment. How many years has it been since she experienced complex emotions at once. Shock, guilt, embarrassment, all crashing at once. And he was unknowingly responsible for it. She said inwardly.
"What's your name?" The man asked after a few moments of silent.
Rose frowned wondering if the man was offended and wanted to report her to the manager or worse, to the owner. She could already guess the man knew the owner if he was allowed in this suite. Or worse, he could be the owner. But she didn't dwell on that.
So, she replied coolly, "Rose."
He hummed low under his breath, like he already knew.
Rose then walked away without glancing behind. If only she had, then she would have seen the sinister yet satisfied smile on the man. It was as if he had finally found his favourite lost rose.
End of Flashback
***
Now, standing in front of him again, nothing had changed in her expression. Not even a flicker, after recalling that slight moment of weakness.
"So... Rose." He said her name like it was laced with meaning. "I wondered if you remembered me."
Rose straightened the empty tray in her hands, and lowered her gaze. She would have wished to reply with a flat, 'unfortunately', but she knew better than to offend these wealthy people.
"Of course, sir." The words tasted bitter, but her tone remained pleasant. She only wished she could walk away faster.
The man smirked, and dared not to avert his gaze from her. There was a subtle amusement in her eyes, especially when he saw how fragile yet, conscious she was. From the tight grip she had on the tray, he could tell she was uncomfortable. But he wasn't letting go until he was pleased.
With that, he took a seat on an empty seat, still gazing at her.
"Would you like to join us... Rose?" The emphasis he put on her name was a clear indicator his liked it, followed by a smile.
On the other hand, Rose felt the limit to her patience was about to burst. This was the longest conversation she had ever had with a customer. Normally, she usually delivered the drinks quietly and left quietly, and on special occasions, she would utter a word or two. She never exceeded that.
But now, she was being talkative like that... Kevin.
"I'm still on shift," she replied, tone even. "Besides, I doubt I'd be entertaining company."
Rose was about to leave when fingers clamped around her wrist. She jerked back instantly, eyes flashing. Coldly, she uttered, "Mind your manners... Sir."
But instead of backing off, the man's grin widened.
"I don't have manners, sweetheart." He said shamelessly smiling at her. "Would you mind teaching me?"
Before Rose could step away, his hand moved again, and this time, she landed in his lap. The tray hit the floor with a sharp clatter.
Rose didn't scream or tremble in fear. But her voice, was colder than ice and sharper than a blade.
"Let. Me. Go."
***
"I never knew when crimson turned from tragedy to comfort. But it did."