Page 12 of Devil's Iris
He shoots me a pointed look, and I clear my throat guiltily. “Just focus on this dinner, Leni. Youcan’tmess up.”
I run a hand over the tight, neat chignon I wrestled my hair into earlier, checking that every strand is still perfectly in place. Even my bangs decided to play nice today—curled just right, not a single piece out of line. I spent forty-five minutes getting itthat way, which is saying something. Usually, I don’t stress over my hair, but that’s how seriously I’m taking this job. “I won’t.”
“Getting this gig is a massive deal for my brand. Nobody from Brownsville has ever come this far. Doing well here tonight is absolutely crucial if I want to keep landing deals at this level.”
My mouth sets into a hard line. “I already said I won’t mess up, didn't I?” God, does he think I’m completely incompetent? It’s not as if I deliberately showed up late to work knowing I would lose my job. This is my one shot to make some money; I’m not stupid enough to ruin it. Besides, what would even count as ‘messing up’ anyway? Dropping a tray? Making eye contact with the wrong person? Existing too loudly?
I scoot back to my original seat and press my face to the window just as the bus slows down in front of a large pair of shiny gates. A security guard steps forward, shining his flashlight directly into our faces while checking something on his tablet.Geez. What kind of paranoid rich person needs this level of security for a dinner party?Once he’s satisfied we’re not imposters or whatever, he signals to someone invisible, and the gates glide open with the kind of silence that screams expensive machinery.
We drive. And drive. And drive down what feels like the longest private road in existence before we finally reach a spiraling driveway. But we don’t stop there. Oh no, we’re not worthy of the front door. Instead, we’re shuttled around the enormous mansion lit up with bright lights, past a beautiful luscious garden, straight to a side door that might as well have a sign reading ‘Servants Only’.
Fred claps his hands. “Let’s go, people.”
We spill out of the bus in silence, and immediately a man approaches us. He introduces himself simply as ‘the butler’—no name, no pleasantries. A butler in this day and age? I resistthe urge to let out an obnoxious snort. These rich folks don’t really know what to do with their money, do they?
The butler leads us through the back door into a small room lined with chairs that clearly serve one purpose. This must be where they brief all the temporary staff, because he gestures for us to sit while he positions himself in the center of the room like he’s done this a hundred times before. “My principal and his guests value their privacy immensely,” he begins. “So no taking pictures of anybody or asking to take pictures with them.”
“Of course not. My staff are all professionals and—” Fred cuts off with a nervous chuckle when the butler throws him a single displeased look. It’s not exactly a glare—his expression barely changes at all—but the message is clear:shut up.
These people mean business.My spine straightens automatically.
“Carry the trays you’re assigned properly. No spillage of drinks or food on the ballroom floor. If you know you have shaky hands, leave now because mistakes won’t be tolerated.” He stretches a hand towards the back door, scanning our faces. Nobody so much as twitches. We all need this money too badly.
“You go in and out, quietly and efficiently. You’re not to be seen or heard. Just the trays in your hands should be seen. Once you’re in there, you’ll discover who’s hosting this event, so I might as well tell you now.” He pauses dramatically, letting the suspense build. “It’s Senator Julian DeMarco.”
He waits, watching us expectantly like we should be squealing with excitement or recognition.
The name doesn’t even ring a bell. I doubt I’d recognize this senator even if he walked right up to me. But then again, I’ve been too busy trying to make a living for three people without dying of exhaustion since I was old enough to work, so keeping tabs on the political elite hasn't exactly been my priority.
“Don’t stare at the senator or his guests. Don’t look any ofthem in the eye. Don’t say a word to them unless you’re spoken to directly. Understood?”
We nod like marionettes.
“Good. Any questions?”
Silence. Nobody dares ask anything.
He nods and gestures for us to stand, then leads us into the biggest kitchen I’ve ever seen. It’s so massive I swear our entire three-bedroom apartment could fit in here three times over. I’m not even exaggerating—this kitchen is obscene.
And it’s buzzing with activity. Dozens of chefs move in perfect choreography, cooking up what smells like a five-star dream. The butler leaves us near the entrance and goes to speak to a woman who seems to be in charge. She glances at us with complete disinterest before turning back to him. After a brief conversation, he returns to our group.
“You will serve the drinks first. Once everyone has a flute of champagne, you can start taking the starters out.”
We follow him out of the kitchen, down another sprawling hallway—seriously, how big is this place?—and through a small, nondescript door that opens into what can only be described as alcohol heaven. Here, rows and rows of chiller fridges line the walls, all filled with expensive drinks—champagnes, wines, whiskeys, brands I’ve only seen in movies. The only name I recognize is Moët & Chandon, and I doubt it’s the cheap five-dollar-a-glass knock-off I drank at my high school graduation. That one tasted so trashy, I knew it was fake the second it hit my tongue.
The butler takes out a pager from somewhere on his person and walks away from us, murmuring into it. Not long after, two dozen uniformed men flood in. Some carry stacks of gleaming silver trays, others have champagne flutes and wine glasses, and one lone person hauls in two duffel bags.
The butler takes the bags, unzips them, and hands them toFred. “Have your staff change into these,” he says, eyeing our clothes with thinly veiled disdain, which makes me frown.
Our clothes aren’t good enough?We’re all wearing black pants and white shirts—it’s practically a uniform already. But I suppose that’s not sufficient for Senator DeMarco and his fancy guests.
Fred hands one bag to me and another to one of the guys. Inside mine are neatly folded skirts and shirts. I glance at the other girls, Cora, Paige, and Anna, lifting the bag. “This is ours.”
The butler assigns one of the newcomers to escort us, and he leads us to a powder room where we can transform ourselves into acceptable help.
I’ll admit, the uniform is pretty sleek and surprisingly well-made. A pencil skirt that fits like it was tailored for me—is this why Fred was asking for my measurements?—a crisp white undershirt, a cute black bow tie, and a deep green vest that reminds me of…
Romero.
