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RAE
VESPER ROW - GUEST CHECK #9316
Date:Wednesday, 12 November 2025
2x Dirty Martini (extra olives):$34.00
1x Margherita Flatbread:$18.00
1x Bottle of BFF Yap:Priceless
Wednesday evening can’t come soon enough. By the time 6 P.M. rolls around, I’m at our usual booth at Vesper Row in Nolita before Jillian even texts that she’s on her way.
I order us both dirty martinis. Extra olives, extra blue cheese. I need every bit of moral support I can get.
It was another strange day of work, in the sense that absolutely nothing happened. When I showed up at eight, Lukas’s door was shut, so I sat at my desk and waited. I answered zero emails because none came for me. I made zero phone calls because nobody told me who to call. I took down zero notes because there were no meetings.
At noon, I ate a granola bar from my purse. As I chewed, I wondered if I should knock on his door.
I decided against it.
At three, I reorganized my desk drawers. I found myself listening for movement behind that door. The creak of leather, the clink of a glass, the catch of his lighter, anything.
I wondered again if I should knock. Again, I didn’t.
At five, with no sign of him, I gave up and left.
For all I knew, Lukas wasn’t even in there. Was it a test of some kind? Was I supposed to knock, or was I supposed tonotknock? Pass or fail? Is this whole arrangement some elaborate game I don’t understand the rules to?
The martini arrives. I take a long sip and let the happy burn settle in my chest.
What am I even doing? A week ago, my life made sense. Was it stressful? Sure. Was I underpaid? Abso-freaking-lutely. But at least I knew where I stood. I knew who my boss was and what was expected of me.
Now, I’m sitting outside an empty office, taking notes at clandestine meetings, and getting yelled at for using a printer.
And the weirdest part, the part I can’t stop turning over in my head…
It’s not Kir.
Not Kir, who cornered me. Not Kir, who put his hands on me. Not Kir, who whispered things that should’ve kept me up at night.
Honestly, I hardly think about him.
When I close my eyes, I don’t see dark hair; I seesilver. I don’t smell cinnamon; I smell sea salt and mint and cigarette smoke.
That’s messed up, right? The son is the one who touched me.
But thefatheris the one who won’t leave my head.
Jilly blows in ten minutes later, red hair flying, cheeks flushed from the cold. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. The F train was a nightmare. A mariachi band came in my car and wouldn’t stop playing until I tipped.”
“Oof. That’s bad luck.” I push her drink across the table. “Drink.”
“Well, you don’t have to twist my arm,” she teases. She slides into the booth, shrugs off her coat, and takes a long, thirsty chug.
It’s wild that she can get away with stuff like that. Jillian is the kind of beautiful that makes other women hate her on sight. It’s not fair, really. She’s got legs that go on forever, cheekbones that cats would kill for, and this mane of copper-red hair that always looks like she just stepped out of a shampoo commercial. Even now, windblown and slightly sweaty from her sprint to the bar, she’s stunning.
