Chapter: Night Shift No. 2
Chapter: Night Shift No. 2
By day, she saved lives.
By night, she poured liquor for people who couldn’t remember theirs.
The Bellamy Lounge wasn’t just a bar — it was an exclusive rooftop escape for Manhattan’s glittering elite. Cash didn’t move here. Black cards did. The music was soft, the lights low, and the secrets heavy.
Mallory moved like she didn’t exist — sleek ponytail, deep red lips, black satin button-up. She didn’t speak unless spoken to. She didn’t smile unless it counted toward tips.
She was here for the money. And only the money.
She hated the way men stared. The way women sneered. But this place paid three times more than the diner she used to work at — and it kept her life running. Groceries. Bus fare. Textbooks. Survival.
She was refilling a glass of Armand de Brignac for some hedge fund heir when the elevator chimed.
She didn’t look right away. But she felt it — the shift in the room. The way the hostess straightened her spine. The subtle, electric hush.
Someone important had arrived.
She finally glanced up.
And didn’t blink.
Mason.
Velvet navy blazer, drink in hand, arrogance like cologne.
But it wasn’t just him.
Behind him — taller, darker, dressed in shadows — was the man from the hospital rooftop.
The one she caught lighting a cigarette where he shouldn’t have been. The one who had simply nodded and put it out when she told him the rules.
Him.
He didn’t see her yet.
Mason laughed too loudly at something unfunny, already drunk. Then he turned toward the bar.
Their eyes locked.
Mallory didn’t flinch. Didn’t pause. Just tipped the champagne bottle and finished the pour.
> “No way,” Mason drawled, loud enough for a few heads to turn. “Is that… Lane? Dr. Lane?”
Mallory placed the bottle down neatly.
> “Mason.” Her tone was neutral. Dismissive. “I assumed you only drank where people pretended to like you.”
He blinked, thrown. Then laughed. “Didn’t know med school came with a side hustle.”
> “Didn’t know inherited wealth came with a personality.”
Now he was grinning, but his eyes were sharp. “You work here?”
> “I survive. You wouldn’t understand.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice like it was some inside joke between them.
> “What’s next, pole dancing at graduation?”
She leaned forward slightly, polished and poised.
> “You’d finally have something to throw your daddy’s money at.”
His smirk faltered.
And then he turned — the man from the rooftop. Silent. Watching.
He studied her with a gaze that lingered, remembering. Something flickered in his eyes, but he said nothing. Just… noticed her. Entirely.
Mason scoffed. “We’re just catching up,” he said to his friend.
> “You’re embarrassing yourself,” the man replied, quiet but cold.
That shut Mason up.
Then, a pause.
The man looked at her again, gaze steady now.
> “You okay?”
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t soften.
> “I don’t break that easily.”
And just like that, she turned away — calm, composed, utterly unreadable.
But she watched them go.
She kept working, kept moving, eyes low but mind alert.
She counted exactly forty-three minutes from the time they arrived to the moment they left.
Mason returned to his table, performative and obnoxious as always. But the other man… he barely spoke. Observed. Quiet. Calculating.
And once — just once — his gaze drifted back to her.
Like he hadn’t meant to. Like he did.
When they rose to leave, Mason didn’t look back.
But he did.
Only for a second.
Not long enough to speak.
Just long enough to let her know he’d seen this version of her — and remembered.
Then the elevator doors slid shut, and they were gone.
---
Later That Night
The Bellamy Lounge was still now.
The last glass was rinsed, the tips were counted, and the air reeked faintly of citrus cleaner and spilled gin.
Mallory sat on a stool in the back room, unlacing her heels with trembling fingers.
Her face was blank, but her heart was sprinting.
> “I don’t break that easily,”
she had said like she was bulletproof.
But now she was in a staff hoodie, nursing a soda from a paper cup, and internally losing her entire mind.
> What the hell was he even doing here?
Why with Mason?
And why did it matter?
She hadn’t expected to see him again. Rooftop Man. Mystery-Cigarette-Violator. The last time, their whole exchange had been fifteen words, max. But now she couldn’t stop rerunning the way he looked at her — like she mattered. Like he was trying to figure her out.
That was dangerous.
She curled forward, elbows on knees, exhaling through her nose.
> “You’re fine,” she muttered. “You didn’t cry. You didn’t run. You served him champagne and verbally destroyed Mason in four moves or less. You’re fine.”
But she wasn’t.
Because now the worlds were bleeding together — med school and nightlife, struggle and performance, ambition and survival — and she wasn’t sure if she’d just impressed the wrong man… or caught the attention of someone even worse.
She pulled out her phone. No new texts. Just the 3:04AM timestamp and a group chat full of people partying without her.
And that one look.
That damn look.
From him.
The one that said he knew too much already.