Under The Devil's Eyes

Nora's POV

‎I wiped the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand, the bitter scent of espresso clinging to my skin like a second layer. The clock above the counter ticked mercilessly toward 4 p.m, mocking my aching feet and the endless loop of "one more hour" I'd been chanting in my head.

Downtown's hustle buzzed outside the café window—cars honking, pedestrians rushing like ants to their hives—but inside, it was just me, the hum of the coffee grinder, and the faint jazz playlist Gina insisted on to "keep things classy." Classy. As if slinging lattes for minimum wage plus tips screamed sophistication. But hey, it paid the bills. Barely.

‎My name's Nora Faez, and at 22, I've learned that life doesn't give you lemons—it hurls them at your face while you're already dodging boulders. Four years ago, a drunk driver turned our world into shattered glass and twisted metal. Mom and Dad were gone in an instant, leaving me and my little brother Elias orphans at 18 and 16.

The foster system? A nightmare carousel of indifferent homes, where we were just numbers in a file. I aged out first, fought tooth and nail for custody of Elias, and we've been scraping by ever since. No fairy godmothers, no trust funds—just me, juggling two jobs to keep the roof over our heads and food on the table.

‎Days like this were my routine: mornings at Gina's Café, brewing dreams for strangers while mine simmered on the back burner. Nights? That's when I traded aprons for the glitz of Luxe Meridian, the city's elite nightclub. Elegant on the surface—crystal chandeliers, velvet ropes, thumping bass that vibrated through your bones—but packed with intolerable stuck-up rich snobs who treated staff like invisible props. I'd landed the gig thanks to Elena Mendoza, my best friend from high school.

She was the manager there now, all sharp wit and fierce loyalty, and she'd pulled strings when I needed it most. "You mix drinks like a pro, Nora," she'd said. "And you don't take crap from anyone." If only she knew how much crap I swallowed daily.

Elias... God, my brother was my anchor and my storm all in one. He'd spiraled after the crash, drowning grief in whatever substances he could score. Rehab had been a battle, and staying clean? An ongoing war. I loved him to death—literally would die for him—but his recklessness tested me. Mornings I'd leave him sleeping, notes on the fridge: "Stay out of trouble. Love, Sis." Evenings, I'd come home praying he hadn't slipped.

‎A sharp voice yanked me from my thoughts. "Excuse me? Miss? I'd like a venti caramel macchiato, extra foam, no whip, and make it skinny."

I blinked at the woman in front of me—designer sunglasses perched on her head like a crown, tapping her manicured nails on the counter. Last order of the shift. "Coming right up," I said, forcing a smile that didn't reach my eyes. As I frothed the milk, my mind wandered back to the grind. Cafe by day, club by night. Rinse, repeat. No time for dreams, just survival.

‎Finally, the clock hit four. I untied my apron, waving goodbye to Gina. "Thanks for the shift, boss."

She grinned, her wrinkled face lighting up. "Take some bagels and coffee, kid. You look like you need it."

‎"Bless you," I muttered, grabbing a to-go cup and a fresh everything bagel. Gina was a saint in a world of sinners.

‎The walk home was a blur of city noise—sirens wailing, vendors hawking street food. Our apartment was a cramped two-bedroom in a rundown building, but it was ours. I pushed open the door to find Elias sprawled on the couch, remote in hand, surrounded by takeout wrappers. The kitchen? A disaster zone—pots crusted with whatever he'd attempted to cook, probably mac and cheese gone wrong.

‎"Elias!" I barked, dropping my bag. "What the hell? Clean this up!"

‎He groaned, pausing his video game. "Chill, Sis. I'll get to it."

‎"Now," I snapped, heading to my room. He was 20 now, old enough to know better, but addiction's claws dug deep. He'd been clean for months, but I watched him like a hawk. "And no inviting your old crew over. I mean it."

"Yeah, yeah," he mumbled, but there was no fight in it. He knew I was right.

I showered quickly, the hot water easing the knots in my shoulders. Towel-dried my hair, pulled on jeans and a tee for the commute—club uniform waited in my locker. Back downstairs, I scarfed the bagel with coffee, scrolling my phone on the worn couch. Elias had started tidying, bless his lazy ass.

My phone buzzed—Elena. "Hey, girl. Bad news—we're short-staffed tonight. Two waitresses down with the flu. Need you in early, like now. Sorry to spring this."

I sighed, but teased, "Overtime pay?"

She paused. "Yeah, sure. Double time."

My jaw dropped. Elena usually bantered back with something sassy. "Whoa, must be serious. You okay?"

‎"Just get here," she said, hanging up abruptly.

‎I stared at the screen. "Weird." Shrugging it off, I grabbed my bag, stuffing in extra clothes just in case. "Elias, lock up. Stay put—no junkie friends messing up the place."

‎He rolled his eyes from the kitchen. "I'm clean, Nora. Always home these days anyway."

"Good. Love you," I called, slipping out.

‎The cab ride blurred as the sun dipped, painting the city in golden hues. Skyscrapers glowed, streets alive with evening rush. Luxe Meridian loomed ahead—neon sign flickering like a siren's call. I clocked in early, changing into the black skirt and blouse uniform. Elena met me in the staff room, looking frazzled.

‎"Not bartending tonight," she said. "VIP lounge needs waitresses. Flu hit hard."

‎"Great," I muttered. VIP meant more tips but snobbier crowds—entitled elites sipping thousand-dollar champagne.

‎The night kicked off busy. I weaved through the lounge, balancing trays of crystal glasses, dodging elbows and egos. Hours blurred: smiles plastered, orders taken, tips pocketed. The bass thrummed, lights pulsed, sweat beaded on my neck.

‎Then it happened. I was carrying a tray laden with a special order—some exotic cocktail that took forever to mix, all for a VIP diva demanding perfection. As I navigated the crowd, a tall figure bumped into me hard. The tray tilted; liquid splashed across my shirt, soaking me in sticky sweetness.

‎"Hey!" I yelped, steadying myself. The man turned—tall, broad-shouldered, with piercing blue eyes and blonde hair, handsome as the the devil himself(hey, I've read the Bible enough to know that Lucifer's handsome so no complaints)his aura screamed money. His suit probably cost more than my rent.

‎He barely glanced down. "Watch where you're going."

‎"Me? You rammed into me!" My temper flared, hot and unfiltered. "Apologize, at least. This shirt's ruined, and that's a customer's order!"

‎He retorts, arrogance dripping. "Do you know who I am? Move along, waitress."

‎Oh, hell no. "I don't care if you're the king of the world. You're a jerk." Impulse took over—I grabbed a half-full glass from my tray and flung the contents at his face. Red wine splattered his crisp white shirt, dripping down his chiseled jaw.

‎Gasps rippled through the crowd. His eyes widened in shock, then narrowed.

‎Before I could react, Elena appeared like a whirlwind, grabbing my arm. "Nora! What the—"

‎She pulled me away, bowing repeatedly. "I'm so sorry, sir. Please, accept my deepest apologies. It won't happen again."

‎I opened my mouth to defend myself—"He started it!"—but Elena clamped a hand over my lips, dragging me backward. The man just stared, a flicker of something—amusement?—in his eyes as we retreated.

‎In her office, door slammed shut, Elena whirled on me. "What in heaven's name is wrong with you!"

‎"What? He was being a jerk! Bumped me, spilled the drink on my shirt—that special order took minutes! I asked for an apology, and he acted like an arrogant asshole. So I... reacted. Not sorry."

‎She sighed, pinching her brows. "Nora, that was Mikhail Romanov. The owner. Our boss."

‎My stomach dropped. Eyes wide, I spluttered, "W-what? No... Oh God." Horror washed over me. My damn temper—always my downfall. "I'm fired, aren't I? Insulted the big boss. Great, just great."

‎Elena shook her head. "I'll apologize for you. But you have to come out and say sorry too. We can't risk it."

‎"No way. Position or not, he was a jerk. No right to treat people like that."

‎She snapped, "You have to, or I can't defend you if he wants you gone!"

‎I deflated. "Fine."

‎We hurried back to the lounge, hearts pounding. But the bartender shook his head. "He left a few minutes ago."

‎Relief and dread mingled. What now? My job hung by a thread, all because of one impulsive splash.