CHAPTER FIVE #3
Now, she’s handing over yet another glossy bag without a shred of guilt while the poor man trudges back towards the car to dump them.
“Ray specifically told me we had to go for lunch at one of his bars,” she says.
“One of?” I repeat, raising an eyebrow.
She laughs. “He’s got a few. But he texted to say he’s booked us into his favourite.”
My stomach twists with unease, wondering if he’s treating us differently to any other employee.
A few minutes later, Holly steers me towards Green’s, a cocktail bar I’ve walked past more times than I can count, and never once dared step inside.
From the outside alone it screams money.
The sort of place where women glide in wearing heels that cost more than my old monthly rent, and men that wear watches worth a small house deposit.
The windows gleam. The brass fittings shine. Even the people inside look expensive.
I slow on the pavement.
“Holly . . .”
She hooks her arm through mine and keeps walking. “Don’t start, they’ll smell your fear.”
The moment we step inside, I feel it. That shift in the air.
The warm, low-lit glamour of the place should feel inviting, but instead it feels like every polished surface is reflecting back the same message—you don’t belong here.
At the front desk stands a woman in black. She’s perfectly tailored and perfectly groomed, with the kind of expression that suggests smiling is beneath her.
Her eyes sweep over us. Not warmly but assessing. Dismissing.
“Can I help you?” she asks, in a tone that suggests the answer should probably be no.
I instantly want to leave. Holly, of course, doesn’t even blink.
“We have a reservation,” she says pleasantly.
The woman’s gaze lingers on my outfit, then my shoes.
“Name?”
“Ray Carmichael booked us in,” Holly says.
One of the woman’s brows arches by a fraction. “Of course, he did,” she replies coolly. There’s a tiny pause. Then, with a faint snigger she doesn’t even try to hide, she adds, “Do you know how many girls walk in here claiming that?”
My face goes hot. The urge to turn around and march straight back out the door hits me so hard it’s almost physical.
Holly leans towards me. “The card,” she whispers urgently. “The black one.” I blink at her. “The card Ray gave you.”
“Oh.”
My fingers fumble in my handbag as the ma?tre d watches me with increasing impatience, like I’m proving her point just by existing.
At last, I pull out the glossy black card.
The second she sees it, her whole expression changes.
She takes it from my hand, far less delicately than necessary, and studies it closely. When she looks back up at me, there’s something new in her eyes.
Holly smiles, sweet and smug. “It’ll be under Wynter,” she says. “With a Y.”
The woman’s lips press into a thin line. “Of course.” She glances at her screen, then a second later, her entire manner shifts into something smoother, silkier, so false it almost makes me laugh. “This way, Miss Lee.”
Miss Lee. Five seconds ago, she looked like she wanted to have me removed from the premises. Now, she’s practically gliding ahead of us as she leads us through the restaurant.
I try not to stare as we pass velvet booths, chandeliers, marble tabletops, and people who look like they’ve never had to choose between food and heating in their lives. There’s the soft clink of glasses, low music, the scent of expensive perfume and grilled meat drifting through the air.
It’s gorgeous yet intimidating. It feels like some bizarre Cinderella moment where I’ve accidentally stumbled into someone else’s life and I’m one wrong move away from being found out.
The ma?tre d seats us by the window and lays the menus down with careful precision. “Your server, Annie, will be right with you.”
Then she leaves, no doubt off to tell someone that the girl from the street somehow has one of Ray Carmichael’s black cards.
I stare at the menu. The food descriptions alone sound expensive.
“Where are the prices?” I whisper.
Holly doesn’t even look up. “Places like this don’t print them on the menu.”
I stare at her. “That is the most stressful thing you’ve said all day.” She laughs. “How am I supposed to know what I can order if there are no prices?”
“Order whatever you want.”
I lower my voice even further. “Holly, I’m not exactly swimming in money right now.”
She finally looks up, frowning. “Wynter, you’ve got a black card.”
“So?”
“So, you don’t pay.”
I blink. “What do you mean, I don’t pay?”
She puts her menu down and leans across the table. “That card covers you in any of Ray’s places. Food, drinks, whatever you need. It’s basically unlimited.”
I stare at her in horror. “That can’t be right.”
“It is.”
“But who pays?”
She gives me a look. “Ray.”
My stomach flips. “That feels wildly inappropriate.”
Holly snorts. “He told me to bring you here. He told me to make sure you ate properly. And he specifically gave me the rest of the afternoon off so I could drink cocktails with you.”
I gape at her. “He said that?”
“Yes.” She grins. “Which means I’m getting the T-bone.”
I drop my gaze to the card sitting beside my plate. Sleek. Black. Like it means something. Somehow, without me noticing, I’ve stepped into a world where people assume I belong to Ray simply because I carry something with his initials on it.
“I’m not sure I like this,” I mutter.
Holly rolls her eyes. “You say that now, but are you seriously going to walk out after Miss Ice Queen at the front desk practically sneered at us?”
I bite back a smile. “She definitely hated me.”
“She hated that she was wrong,” Holly corrects. “And now, she’s probably in the back trying to work out how the hell you ended up with one of Ray’s infamous black cards.”
I look down at it again. “He just handed it to me like it wasn’t a big deal.”
Holly gives me a knowing look. “It is a big deal.”
I groan. “Please stop saying that or I’m going to be sick in one of these crystal water glasses.”
She laughs. “Alright. No big deal. Totally normal. Men hand out mysterious black cards every day.”
“You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“A little bit,” she admits.
“Does every employee have one?” I ask, with hope in my voice. She smirks. “Please,” I hiss, “Tell me everyone has one.”
“Totally.” But there’s no conviction in her tone.
In the end, I order salmon because it feels like the safest, cheapest thing on the menu, but every bite comes with a side of anxiety.
What if Holly’s wrong? What if they bring the bill and it costs more than I’ve earned in a month?
What if the card gets declined and I have to crawl under the table and die?
Apparently sensing the meltdown happening behind my polite smile, Holly insists we move to the bar afterwards.
The bartender gives her an easy nod when she hands over the black card. He scans it, glances at the screen, then gives it straight back.
“All sorted,” he says.
Holly smirks at me. “See? Meal paid for. No dramatic dishwashing required.” I exhale for what feels like the first time in an hour. Then she turns to the bartender and says, “We’ll start with two Champagne cocktails.”
“Don’t you feel weird letting your boss pay for lunch?” I ask quietly once he’s gone.
Holly laughs. “God, no. He can afford it.”
“That’s not really the point.”
“It kind of is.” She leans against the bar. “Ray doesn’t offer things he doesn’t want accepted. So, stop panicking and enjoy it.”
I look around the bar again. The gold lighting. The polished shelves. The women in silk dresses. The men with perfect teeth and effortless confidence.
And me.
Sitting here with a black card, ordering Champagne cocktails in a place I’d never have dared walk into alone.
For the first time since I arrived in London, I feel like I’ve accidentally slipped into the sort of life I only ever looked at through windows. And I’m not entirely sure whether I want to run from it or stay and see what happens next.
“How long have you worked for him?” I ask.
“Since I left school at sixteen.”
I nearly choke. “Sixteen?”
She laughs at my expression. “I was a little gobshite back then. Running wild, hanging around the estate, doing whatever I could to make money.”
Something in her tone makes me look at her properly.
“What kind of money?” I ask carefully.
She arches a brow. “Street money.”
It takes me a second. Then my eyes widen. “Wait . . . you mean prostitution?” She nods once, like she’s talking about any other old job.
“Wow,” I breathe. “Did your parents know?”
That makes her laugh again, but there’s no real humour in it. “You’re so sweet, Wynter.” She takes a sip of her drink. “I didn’t know my parents. I grew up in care.”
My chest tightens instantly. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
She shrugs, though I can tell it’s one of those things that shaped her anyway. “It is what it is. I was a walking poster for council estate Britain. I had no real direction, just trying to make enough money to party, drink, and forget about real life for a while. And it was easy money.”
“Then Ray found you?” I ask.
She snorts. “That makes it sound like some kind of sweet film.”
“Well, didn’t he?”
“In a way,” she says. “But not the way your face is suggesting.”
I frown. “What does that mean?”
“You look like you think he drove up in a fancy car and hired me for sex, like Pretty Woman.”
My cheeks flame. “I didn’t—”
“You absolutely did.”
I cover my face for a second. “Maybe a little.”
“God, no,” she says, laughing. “He’s not like that.”
A waiter appears with our drinks, and she thanks him before continuing.
“It’s a long story, but he found me at a point in my life where things could’ve gone really badly. He gave me work. Proper work. Got me off the streets. I’ve never gone back.”
I blink at her, shocked at how honest she’s been. “You work in the casino full-time now?”
She nods. “And I make good money. Better money, actually. Cleaner money too.” She smirks. “It’s much better for the soul.” There’s warmth in her voice when she says his name next. “If it wasn’t for Ray, I honestly don’t know where I’d be.”
I believe her. She’s been singing his praises all day, but not in a mindless way. More like someone who knows exactly what he saved her from. It makes something shift inside me.
I lift my cocktail and take a sip. The taste explodes over my tongue—sharp, cold, sweet, perfect. I close my eyes for a second.
“Oh my god,” I murmur. “This is amazing.”
Holly laughs. “Told you.”