They thought they were untouchable, clinking glasses in the VIP section while I sat in the shadows. They thought the music, the lighting, the cameras, and the price tag on the champagne made them bulletproof. But they forgot who paid for the champagne.
They forgot who paved the road they were standing on. And most importantly, they forgot that I don’t get mad. I get even.
Drop a comment and let me know where you’re listening from and what time it is for you right now. I’d love to know who’s part of our community. The timeline rewinds to forty-five minutes earlier.
I pulled up to the Obsidian Lounge in my sedan, the same gray sedan I’d been driving for eight years because I liked knowing every scratch and rattle was mine. The valet glanced past me first, eyes scanning for Ferraris, Lamborghinis, and G-Wagons, the cars people took pictures of for free content. I watched his attention sweep over the traffic like a lighthouse beam, then reluctantly land on my car.
His shoulders slumped a little, disappointment flickering across his face. Then I handed him a crisp hundred-dollar bill. His posture snapped straight.
“Good evening, ma’am,” he said, suddenly respectful. That was the first sign. In this world, you’re either the show or the wallet.
I had always been the wallet. The Obsidian Lounge sat three floors below street level, hidden behind an unmarked black steel door in a nondescript alley. No signage, no neon, nothing to suggest that behind that door was a maze of velvet, mirrors, and $40 cocktails.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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