A week later, Naina was back at work at the Amber Room in SoHo. The club was as much an aesthetic experience as it was a social hotspot. Sleek black walls shimmered under the warm glow of amber-tinted light fixtures, and golden geometric designs etched into the ceilings reflected the soft lighting. Plush velvet lounges framed the open floor, while an enormous marble bar with a glowing resin countertop served as the centerpiece. The bass-heavy music pulsed in sync with the flickering lights, creating a hypnotic atmosphere.

Naina adjusted her cropped, long-sleeve black top, which had thin gold chains strung across the open back, paired with high-waisted leather pants that hugged her legs like a second skin. Her heeled ankle boots gave her just enough height to command attention from behind the bar, and a pair of delicate gold hoops completed her look. The outfit was part of the image, carefully curated to blend in with the high-fashion clientele that poured in every night.

What time was it? she wondered glancing at her watch. Her shift wasn't even halfway over.

The patrons at the Amber Room were a study in extravagance, most of them with more money than they knew what to do with. They threw cash around like it was confetti. Their tips scattered carelessly across the counter, as if to remind everyone how little it mattered to them. But with their wealth came an unsettling entitlement—snapping fingers, shouted orders, and dismissive glances.

Naina had lost count of how many cocktails she'd made tonight. Her arms ached from constant shaking, stirring, and pouring. The ache in her stomach was worse though—a sharp reminder that she hadn't eaten anything since breakfast. Every time she thought she could grab a quick bite in the back, another drink order came in, and tonight's crowd was relentless.

She sighed deeply as someone ordered yet another Espresso Martini—her least favorite drink to make. The precise steps, the shaking, the foam that had to be just right—it was too much for the night she was having.

"Why is it always Espresso Martinis?" Naina muttered, leaning closer to her co-worker Chelsea. "I swear, one more of these, and I'm going to lose it." She added, as she begrudgingly began prepping the dreaded drink.

"Cool it, Chohan. The shift isn't over yet," Chelsea replied without looking up, her hands deftly finishing off a drink with a perfectly twisted orange peel.

Chelsea Roman was all focus and determination, a study in controlled chaos. Naina admired how she handled these grueling weekend shifts, knowing Chelsea had bigger plans fueling her hustle. She worked nights at the Amber Room to help pay off her NYU tuition, balancing bartending with her studies in business. Chelsea wanted more for herself—she had a plan.

Naina envied her for it. When Chelsea had once asked what Naina wanted from her own future, she had dodged the question with a shrug and a half-hearted, "Here is good enough." But deep down, she knew the truth was far more complicated—Naina had no idea where else she could go or what she truly wanted.

Chelsea slid the finished drink onto a tray and then casually reached into the pocket of her apron. Pulling out a small packet. "Want some? Helps me get by when—"

"No." Naina's response was sharp, cutting Chelsea off mid-sentence.

Naina didn't drink or take drugs. She had seen what that path looked like, and she wasn't about to become another Paula McHenry—no matter how tough the night got.

"Suit yourself, girlie," Chelsea said with a shrug, slipping the packet back into her pocket. She shot Naina a quick smirk and moved down the bar to deliver a drink. Her ponytail swung in rhythm with the pounding music.

"Two Manhattans," a voice said, deep and commanding, carrying the faint scent of cigars.

Naina didn't look up. Her focus remained on the espresso machine, where she was carefully working the froth. She raised one finger, signaling for him to wait.

"I'm talking to you, beautiful," he repeated, louder this time. "Two Manhattans."

Naina clenched her jaw but kept her eyes on her task. She finished pouring the drink and slid it toward a waiting server before finally lifting her gaze to meet his.

"Two Manhattans, please," he repeated, smugly.

The man, likely in his mid-thirties, radiated a raw, magnetic energy that commanded attention. His neatly trimmed beard was peppered with just enough silver to hint at experience without betraying his age. Dark, hooded eyes held a dangerous charm, as if he knew exactly the effect he had on people and wasn't above using it to his advantage.

He wore his tailored black blazer like armor, the open collar of his shirt revealing just a glimpse of chest hair and a gold chain against his sun-bronzed skin. There was something in the way he stood—relaxed, yet deliberate—that suggested he was used to being in control.

Naina felt a flutter in her chest but shoved it down. She masked it with a cool, professional tone. "Okay," she said sharply and started making the drinks.

"What's your name, beautiful?" he asked in a husky voice, his accent oozing privilege, with a hint of the Upper East Side—if that was even a thing. "I'm Kunal."

"Naina," she responded flatly, setting the two Manhattans on the bar in front of him.

"Nai-na," he repeated, almost singing her name. "Nai-na. I like it. It's Indian, huh?"

"I'm not sure," she replied, her tone clipped.

He leaned in closer, his interest piqued. "In Hindi, your name means 'beautiful eyes,'" he said, his voice low and suggestive. "Just like those large brown ones you've got right here," he added, pointing at her drunkenly. "And boy, are they beautiful."

Naina's patience was wearing thin. Without a word, she deliberately turned away and addressed another customer, a younger man in a worn leather jacket who'd been quietly waiting his turn. "What was your drink?"

Before the customer could answer, Kunal pushed forward, cutting in front of him. "Hold on, buddy, I'm talking to her," he said dismissively, blocking the man's view of the bar.

"I'd like to get to know you better, Nai-na," Kunal said, sliding a crisp, heavy business card across the bar. The embossed lettering read: Kunal Khanna – Managing Director, Silvercrest Capital Partners.

Of course. A finance guy. That explained everything—the arrogance, the entitlement, and the smug air of someone who probably thought his money could buy him anything, or anyone.

"A girl like you doesn't belong behind a bar," he added, slurring slightly. "She should be taken care of, served."

He was definitely drunk, Naina thought. She reminded herself she was at work, forced a tight smile, and took the card. She slipped it into her apron pocket, fully planning to toss it later.

Before Naina could respond, a woman appeared behind Kunal, swaying slightly and gripping the bar. Her olive skin glowed under the dim lights. Almond-shaped, piercing green eyes framed by thick lashes seemed almost hypnotic. High cheekbones and symmetrical features exuded elegance. She wore a red dress that hugged her hourglass figure. The neckline dipped just enough to intrigue. Midnight-black, wavy hair fell over her shoulders, catching the light with every move.

"Oh, is that for me?" she asked, her glossy red lips curving into a smile as she eyed the two drinks in his hands.

Kunal nodded sloppily, passing her one of the glasses. The woman took a sip, then followed his gaze and noticed the way he was drunkenly staring at Naina.

"What are you looking at, bitch?" the woman snapped at Naina, her voice sharp and slurred.

"Don't do that, Pooja!" Kunal said, exasperated, as he shot her an annoyed look.

Naina's eyes widened, her body stiffening at the unexpected hostility. She swallowed hard, refusing to engage, and turned away, pretending to focus on another customer. Her hands moved automatically, wiping down the bar.

Chelsea walked over, raising an eyebrow as she glanced at the bickering couple. "Why is that woman cursing at you?" she asked Naina, incredulously.

"No idea," Naina replied, quietly, despite the knot of irritation growing in her chest.

Before Chelsea could say more, a shouting match erupted between Kunal and Pooja. Their voices rose, sharp and incoherent, drawing the attention of nearby patrons. A woman, maybe their mutual friend, swooped in, her face flushed with embarrassment, and quickly ushered the pair away, apologizing profusely to anyone who was watching.

Naina exhaled slowly, her shoulders sagging. Of course, it was going to be one of those nights. All she wanted now was to clock out, head back to Brooklyn, and grab a hot cup of Yousef's finest convenience-store coffee—a quiet little treat to celebrate her twenty-fifth birthday.