“Palsgraf v. Long Island Railroad,” I whisper to myself as I push the drink order from Table Five across to the club’s bartender, Peter. He’s the kind of bartender that makes the ladies weak in the knees—blonde, blue-eyed and tall, broad chest, and arms ripped with well-defined muscles. He looks every part the model off the cover of a romance novel. He’s also an insufferable flirt.

“Looking good tonight, Juliet.” He takes the paper I hand to him from my order pad with a wink.

I give him a tight-lipped grin in return. I look this good every night I work at the White Rose. It’s my job to look this good. At least this good, anyway. I always try to look my best. Looking my best means more and bigger tips, and more and bigger tips means I can buy myself some more time. I’m trading time away from studying for law school right now, but I’ll be damned if I let down my dad. Hence the extra job, on top of the full-time, all-consuming work that is going to law school.

“Palsgraf v. Long Island Railroad,” I repeat as soon as Peter turns away to prepare the drinks. “Palsgraf v. Long Island Railroad, 1928. New York Court of Appeals. Foreseeability.” It’s the Cliffs Notes version of the case, the same Cliffs Notes I spent until the early hours of the morning writing out longhand. Typing out notes just doesn’t give my memory the same juice as writing it all out by hand. “Limits liability to those consequences that could reasonably be foreseen.”

Peter returns with the drinks, and I grab a tray from the other side of the bar, arranging the glasses in a perfect triangle. He watches me with his contemplative blue eyes. “You have an exam in the morning?”

I roll my eyes. “When don’t I have an exam? I’m in law school.”

He shakes his head. “What are you doing here so late if you have an exam to study for tomorrow?”

I balance the tray on one hand and spin him a flirty grin, rubbing the fingers of my other hand together. “Money, Peter. You don’t make any money as a lawyer until you become one.”

He grins back at me, pretending to sniff the air. “You should just wrap one of the club’s members around your finger, and then you’d have all the money you could ever want. It reeks of money in here.” 

I take in a deep breath. Peter’s tone is low, rumbling beneath the gentle music playing in the background every single moment the club is open to its members. It’s not the kind of thing we’d be caught dead saying in front of the members, but it’s true. Everything about the White Rose is decadently understated—the dark, rich-textured carpeting that hushes even the most expensive stilettos, the linen tablecloths with higher thread counts than my nice sheets, the paintings placed strategically and inconspicuously on the walls, drop-lit from under their opulent custom-designed frames, several of which are originals from some of the world’s most famous artists.

If the White Rose doesn’t smell like money, I don’t know what it smells like.

I shake my head slowly at Peter. “Sell out? I would never do that.”

Now it’s his turn to roll his eyes dramatically. “I’m not suggesting selling out, I’m just suggesting that there may be a shortcut.”

“I don’t need to take a shortcut.”

I turn away from the bar, running a mental assessment of tonight’s ensemble—is the strapless black dress still in place? Has it curved with the sway of my hips and become crooked? No, and no. Every step I take is calculated to just the right degree in the swing of my hips. I might not be the most attractive waitress at the Rose, but damn if I can’t play the part.

Table Five this evening is occupied by a bachelor’s party. I don’t know how the hell this group of guys in their tailored summer suits and too-wide grins even got this table. On nights like tonight, when the August air is clear and no humid haze masks the cityscape, Table Five boasts the best view in the house. It sits directly in front of a wide, circular window that overlooks the Manhattan skyline. Tonight it’s sparkling below us, dark and clean and mysterious from this high up. 

It’s a damn good view. Some nights, when the last of the club’s members have gone home and the guest parties have trickled out, I like to look out over that view and imagine that I’m someone else—at least, someone who’s on the other side of all this...preparation, and waiting, and knows where she’s going for sure in the future.

It would be so much easier if it wasn’t for Dad.

The thought of him makes my throat tighten, but I swallow it away without divulging anything in my expression. I’ve perfected the look—a little smile, like I’m thinking of something slightly naughty—that seems to get me the best tips. People here like a waitress with a little mystery, a little allure. Or that’s what I try to make myself believe. I can’t imagine what it would be like to have their lives. Well, I guess that’s not exactly true—I can imagine it. I just can’t imagine it for myself. Most of the men here—who I might add, are wearing custom-designed shirts that cost more than I make in a week—acquired their money from family businesses. Because of their family names. Or else they used family money to start companies that soared to the top of the market, dumping cash into their pocket hand over first. 

Someday I’ll have a little taste of what that type of freedom is like. Someday, when I’m out of law school and have passed the bar and joined a firm—I’ll accept the highest offer—I’ll finally be free of the weight that’s heavy on my shoulders even now, when I’m pretending to be someone I’m not: a sultry, sexy princess with perfect posture and not a problem in the world.

Time? That’s something I might never have. But at least I’ll have earned what I get.

I just have to keep working, keep earning tips. And if that means approaching Table Five with a seductive grin and an obvious sway of my hips, then so be it.

“Drinks,” I say, keeping the tone of my voice balanced somewhere between sultry and absolutely professional. I slide the tray onto the table and deliver the correct cocktail in front of the man who ordered it, fluttering my eyelashes at each one in turn. Eye contact earns tips. “Where did all your friends go?”

They were a party of six when they arrived earlier in the evening, but now they’re down to three. The one sitting closest to me, who ordered a whiskey neat, looks at me with eyes so dark they’re almost black under the club’s mood lighting. “We’re making some changes in personnel.”

I laugh, noticing his other hand rising up from his lap, and step away, flicking my gaze around the table to the others. “Is there anything I can get you in the meantime, while you wait for your new crew to arrive?”

The second man at the table, his dark reddish hair combed in such a way there’s not a lock out of place, murmurs something to Mr. Dark Eyes. He grins at me, his teeth leering and reminding me of a wolf. It’s at moments like these that I’m glad for the extra security hired on by the Rose, just in case. Usually everyone is on their best behavior, but with such wealthy men, some who feel entitled because of their success, I’m always on my guard. The smile on my face stays planted firmly in its position. “Tell you what,” I say, picking up the tray from the table. “You let me know if you need anything.”

“Oh, we will. We will.”

I turn and walk away, working my hips a little more, even though the hairs on the back of my neck are raised.

Law school. Dad’s bills. Tips. 

I lock my thoughts on those things. 

Consequences that can reasonably be foreseen....