The Dessin launch sparkled like a jewelry box turned inside out.
Brenna carried champagne through it in a plain black dress, and every guest in the room knew exactly what she was.
On the stage, Bertrand Dessin lifted his glass.
Bertrand: Tonight belongs to my daughter.
Bertrand: Roselle Dessin, the nose behind our new scent.
Brenna had built that scent note by note in a rented kitchen, and her father knew it.
He raised Roselle's hand to the applause anyway.
Roselle: Everyone, this is Brenna. Our little charity case.
Bertrand: Brenna, table nine is dry. Move. And smile.
Smile. She was representing the house tonight. Representing it as what?
Across the salon, Evren Sarre watched the woman with the tray.
She moved like she owned the floor, and she served like she was being punished for it.
At the bar, Arlo Bell caught her arm in front of a dozen guests.
Arlo: You're a stray bitch your father fed out of pity.
He said it loud enough for the men beside him to hear, and they looked at their drinks.
Arlo: Say one word about that formula tonight and I'll put you in a gutter where nobody finds you.
His breath smelled like gin, and she knew he meant it.
In the service corridor, he shoved her into the wall and slapped her.
Her head snapped sideways, her lip split on her teeth, and he walked off whistling.
Back in the salon, the centerpiece display lay in pieces on the marble.
Roselle: Oh no. Brenna, sweetheart. That was the only sample set.
Roselle: Clean it up before the press sees.
Brenna knelt in her black dress and picked up the glass with her bare hands.
A shard opened her thumb. She rebuilt the bottles in a fan, labels out, the way her mother used to.
Evren watched her make the ruined display look better than it had before.
Then he watched her walk away with her hand wrapped in a napkin, and he followed her.
The marble washroom was empty and cold. She was washing blood from her mouth when the door opened.
Evren: You're bleeding on the soap.
Brenna: Go away.
Evren: No.
He took the towel from her hands and pressed it to her lip.
His thumb was warm, and something in her chest gave way like a rotten board.
She kissed him first. She would tell herself that later, many times.
His mouth tasted like whiskey, and her hands pulled him in by the jacket.
She sat on the edge of the marble tub and dragged his hands under her dress.
Brenna: Don't stop.
His palm was rough on her thigh, and she gasped into his neck.
His fingers climbed higher, and she arched into him until her name did not matter at all.
Then the door handle turned.
Roselle: Brenna? I know you're hiding in here.
Brenna shoved him back and slid off the tub. Her legs would not hold still.
Evren: Tomorrow. We finish this tomorrow.
She was already shaking her head.
She looked at her own face in the mirror. Her lip was swollen and her eyes were dry.
The shame turned over inside her and came out as something harder.
She would not be their servant, and she would not be his.
By morning, Brenna would be gone.
She did not know that Evren Sarre was already asking the bartender her name.