The spilled champagne soaked the carpet, and Tara Lawrence's voice cut through the lounge like a knife.
"On your knees. Clean it up with a napkin, you little bitch."
I stood my ground, my tray balanced perfectly.
I refused, knowing it meant losing my job.
To my shock, Caleb Scott, the casino empire' s heir, didn't fire me.
Instead, he summoned me to a penthouse with a bizarre proposition: "Be my girlfriend."
It made no sense. Why would a man like him want a cocktail waitress, especially after I publicly defied his friend?