Chapter 3 - Whispers in the Service Hallway
The service corridors behind the Sterling Grand’s ballroom were a stark contrast to the crystal chandeliers out front. Here, the walls were bare concrete, lined with stainless steel warming carts and industrial dishwashers.
The moment the heavy fire doors clicked shut behind me, the kitchen staff erupted.
"Holy shit, Grace!" whispered Leo, one of the junior bartenders, slapping his towel against the counter. "Did you see her face? She looked like she swallowed a wasp!"
"Keep your voices down," Marta, the banquet captain, commanded, though her usually stern face cracked into a broad, satisfied grin. She walked over and pulled me into a fierce embrace. "In twenty years of working luxury hospitality, I have never seen anyone put Bianca Vance on the floor. God forgive me, but that woman had it coming."
"I was just protecting myself, Marta," I said quietly, unbuttoning the stiff collar of my vest. "She was going to slap me. If I hadn't blocked her, she would have claimed I attacked her anyway."
"She will try to ruin you," warned Hector, the head chef, leaning over the pass with a plate of untouched hors d'oeuvres. "Her father, Richard Vance, owns half the commercial real estate on the East Side. He owns city council members. Daniel Sterling might have balls, but Vance has teeth."
"Let him try," I said, though an icy knot tightened in my stomach.
I wasn't naive. I knew how power worked in New York City. People like the Vances didn't accept defeat; they waged scorched-earth campaigns against anyone who dared to wound their pride.
"Go home, Grace," Marta told me gently, taking my clipboard. "Get some sleep. Whatever happens tomorrow with Mr. Sterling, remember you did your job with dignity."
I took the subway back to my cramped studio apartment in Queens. My phone buzzed constantly throughout the forty-minute ride. Word had already leaked onto luxury gossip blogs: *Sterling Heir Dumps Vance Princess at Charity Gala.*
My name wasn't in the press yet, but it wouldn't stay buried for long.
The next morning, I arrived at the hotel an hour before my scheduled shift. I wore a crisp, tailored navy suit—my best professional clothes, reserved for interviews and high-stakes meetings. I refused to walk into Daniel Sterling’s penthouse office looking like a victim waiting for a reprimand.
When the executive elevator opened on the 45th floor, Daniel’s executive assistant, a polished woman named Evelyn, looked up with widened eyes.
"He's waiting for you, Grace. Go right in."
I took a deep breath, smoothed my jacket, and knocked on the heavy mahogany doors.
"Enter," Daniel's deep voice called out.
I walked into a sprawling corner office overlooking Central Park. Daniel stood behind an expansive glass desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows, reviewing a stack of thick legal files. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, hinting that he hadn't slept a wink.
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"Close the door, Grace," he said, setting his pen down. "And please, have a seat."
***
