Jayde POV

I stare at my reflection in the cracked mirror, adjusting the hand-me-down blouse from Mom. It hangs a bit loose, like most of her clothes do on me, but it'll have to do. That's just how things are now.

Ever since Dad died, our lives split into "before" and "after." Before, we weren't rich, but we got by. Dad made sure there was always food on the table, and I had this dream of becoming a beautician. He used to smile whenever I talked about it, probably picturing his only daughter owning her salon someday.

Then came the "after." They brought him home one day, just like that. "Collapsed at work," they said. What they didn't say was how they'd use his final paycheck to cover "debts" we never knew existed. Mom and I cried for days, but tears don't pay bills.

Now Mom works twice as hard selling whatever she can at the market, and I... Well, I work nights at the bar. Not exactly what I dreamed of, but it keeps us eating and, more importantly, keeps my beauty school fund growing. Even if it's just penny by penny.

I grab my phone from the wobbly table and head out into the evening. Mom won't be home until late - we're like ships passing in the dark these days. Sometimes I wonder if things will ever get better if I'll ever catch a break. But hope feels like a luxury I can't afford right now.

The taxi drops me at Number 24, Magic Street. Inside the bar, I spot Jayden, our DJ, and manage a genuine smile. We joke about sharing almost the same name - everyone calls us twins. He's probably the only real friend I've made here.

I change into my red dress in the bathroom - one of two nice outfits I scraped together for this job. Mrs. Maggie Lincorn, the owner, has strict rules about looking "presentable." The dress fits okay and shows off my figure, but the price tag nearly killed me.

That's when they walk in - Weston and Declan, the famous Ayles billionaires. The whole bar erupts like a celebrity just walked in, which I guess they kind of are around here. They're young, rich, and look like they walked off a magazine cover. There used to be a third one, Henry, but he's overseas or something.

Right on cue, the Ayles beauties - April, Jamie, and Bonnie - sweep in like they own the place. They're everything I'm not: designer clothes, perfect hair, flawless makeup. Sometimes I catch my reflection behind the bar and wonder what my life would be like if Dad was still alive. Would I be more like them? 

But those are dangerous thoughts for a girl who can't afford dreams right now. I've got drinks to serve and bills to pay. This isn't some fairy tale where a rich prince notices the poor barmaid. This is real life - my life - and I've got to make it work, one shift at a time.

I try to keep busy while Gwen handles the billionaires' table. She's made it clear that's her territory, especially when it comes to Declan. "Don't even look their way," she's warned me more times than I can count. Fine by me - I've got tables to clear anyway.

Standing near the bar with Samson, I can't help but notice what's happening at their table. Declan's got his hands all over Bonnie while supposedly talking to her, and I feel my stomach turn. It's not jealousy - it's disgust. There's something so... entitled about the way he treats women, like they're toys he can play with.

"Can't believe Gwen's still hung up on him," Samson mutters beside me, shaking his head. "Declan's nothing but trouble."

He's right. Everyone knows Declan chases anything in a skirt, while Weston's proud of his playboy reputation. Their friend Henry is different - more selective, maybe even decent. Sometimes I wonder how three such different guys ended up best friends.

"Be right back," I tell Samson, weaving between chairs toward the restroom. Inside, I splash some water on my face and stare at my reflection. Sometimes I feel completely invisible here, just another shadow moving between tables. But maybe that's better than being one of Declan's conquests.

Leaving the restroom, I slam straight into what feels like a brick wall. But it's worse - it's a chest. Declan's chest. His cologne hits me before I can step back, expensive and overwhelming.

"I'm so sorry," I mumble, trying to slip past. But his hand catches my arm, and my heart starts racing - from fear or anger, I'm not sure which.

The disgust on his face when he realizes who I am makes my stomach clench. He pulls out hand sanitizer and uses it right in front of me like I'm contaminated.

"You bumped into me," he states, words slightly slurred. Great, he's drunk.

"I already apologized," I say, but he grabs my arm again, making me face him.

More hand sanitizer. "Why do you keep making me waste this?" he sneers, then his eyes narrow. "That wasn't a proper apology."

"I said I was sorry. What more do you want?"

His lips curl into a cruel smile that makes my skin crawl. "Kiss my feet."

For a second, I think I've misheard him. "What did you say?"

"You heard me, wench. Get down and kiss my feet. That's how you apologize to your betters."

My heart pounds against my ribs, but now it's anger. This is what money does to people - makes them think they own the world, makes them think they can humiliate others for fun. I might be poor, I might wear secondhand clothes, but I've got something Declan will never have: dignity.