Jamie couldn’t afford to lose his job—not now. Not when everything else had crumbled around him like an ancient ruin left to the mercy of wind and time. His mother was gone. His home—the only one he had ever known, however cold and cruel—was now a memory erased in a single night. The Reynolds, as vile as they had been, at least gave him a roof to sleep under and two meals a day. That roof was now gone. That allowance of $500, which came with bitterness and humiliation, had vanished along with any hope of financial reprieve.

Still reeling from the sting of Ben Reynold’s cruelty, Jamie sprinted through the city’s busy streets, the dried tears on his face cracked by the wind, his mind cluttered with grief. His clothes still smelled faintly of the hospital room where his mother had died. But there was no time to mourn properly. Life in Hollywood never waited for the broken or the poor. It only moved for the rich and powerful, and Jamie knew all too well he was neither.

He reached Momentuum Nightclub minutes before the shift began. Momentuum wasn’t just a place—it was a phenomenon. A student hotspot at Hollywood University (HU), it pulsed with loud music, extravagant lights, and the smell of ambition mixed with alcohol. Celebrities and their offspring, influencers, actors, wannabe stars, and rich college kids—the entire city’s next generation of elites—congregated there nightly.

Jamie was a busboy. One of the invisible ones. His job was to wipe the vomit off the floor, clean glasses others shattered in drunken arrogance, and take orders while pretending their insults didn’t stab through him like knives.

He rushed inside, breathless and still shaking from the events of the day. His boss, a short-tempered former bartender named Mick Dalton, stood at the entryway, arms folded, eyebrows raised. Before Jamie could explain, Mick barked.

“Don’t care what your sob story is. You’re late. Get in there. Tables aren’t gonna clean themselves.”

“Sir… I—I need a loan—just enough to—” Jamie tried to speak, intending to ask Mick for a loan so he could offset his now-late mother’s bills. 

“Save it, Jamie,” Mike cut him off, barely glancing up from wiping a glass. “You’re lucky I didn’t fire you already. Get to work. Like I said, tables won’t bus themselves.” His tone was a brick wall, no cracks for pleading.

Jamie bit back the desperation clawing his throat and grabbed a tray. Busboy at Momentuum—$100 a night, plus whatever scraps the rich kids deigned to toss his way. He’d seen it all here: the curled lips, the barked orders, the casual cruelty of those who’d never known hunger. Hollywood bred them—children of celebrities and tycoons, their egos as inflated as their trust funds. Tonight, though, the disdain hit harder, a deluge on a soul already drowning.

He wove through the crowd, clearing empties, dodging elbows, and swallowing insult:

“Watch it, charity case,” 

“Don’t touch me, filth”

Each a jab to his bruised pride. 

Then the DJ’s voice boomed over the speakers, cutting through the haze. “Give it up for the real royalty of HU!” 

The room erupted as a group swaggered into the VIP lounge, a constellation of wealth and power Jamie knew too well.

Jamie didn’t need to see them to know. He could feel them. That unbearable aura of privilege and polished power. He turned toward the velvet rope section near the glass dance floor, and there they were—his tormentors.

Nathan Reynold and Jonathan Reynold, his half-brothers, born of Ben’s legal wife, flanked by their usual entourage. 

Meghan Sharp, flawless as ever in a shimmering black dress that screamed her mother’s $200 million Oscar pedigree, casually scrolling through her phone while paparazzi snapped her from the club’s private booth windows. 

Seth Fausto, laughing a little too loud, throwing wads of cash at a waitress to make her dance—all slick charm and $300 million producer lineage.

Danny Saxon stood with one foot on the glass table, a bottle of rosé champagne swinging from his hand—the son of Ben’s business partner strutted with his $350 million freelance empire swagger.

And Olivia Feng, already sipping something strong while taking selfies under the strobe lights, her million-dollar smile glowing for the camera—senator’s daughter and rising star, her $5 million glow already outshining her family’s $250 million. 

They were walking dollar signs, their influence a currency Jamie could never touch.

Jamie knew he was doomed.

“NATHAN!” Someone shouted. “Is that Jamie?”

“Oh, look,” Nathan grinned wickedly. “It’s the bastard! Shouldn’t you be off burying your witch of a mother?”

They burst into laughter. Even patrons nearby giggled, not out of cruelty, but fear. No one dared oppose the Reynolds’ circle. Their money was too long. Their reach too deep.

Trouble didn’t just follow this crew—it rode shotgun. Nathan’s voice sliced through the din again. “Jamie! Get over here, servant boy!” The lounge erupted in laughter, heads turning to watch the show.

Jamie clenched his fists. His vision blurred. But he had no choice. He had to work.

He approached.

“What can I get you all?” he asked, voice low, trying to stay invisible.

Jamie dragged himself over, tray trembling in his grip. Nathan lounged back, a king on his velvet throne. “Heard the news, folks? Little Jamie’s homeless now. Mommy’s dead, and Dad finally kicked the bastard out.” 

Jonathan cackled, tossing a peanut shell at Jamie’s chest. “Go fetch us some napkins, dog. And shine my shoes while you’re at it. You look like you came out of a garbage dump.”

The rest of the group took turns—

Meghan tossed a napkin on the floor. “And pick that up.”

Danny waved a hundred-dollar bill. “Dance for it, Jamie. Come on! One pirouette and it's yours!”

Olivia wasn’t left out. “Wipe the table!”

They all laughed again.

Each command a lash. 

The humiliation burned, but he obeyed, a puppet on their strings, his mother’s lifeless face flashing in his mind.

Jamie’s chest tightened. He bent, picked the napkin, and fought back the tears building behind his eyes. His boss stood watching from the bar. He wouldn’t step in. These were VIPs. High-paying. Connected. Jamie was not.

Jamie’s boss barked from the bar, “Do it, Jamie! They’re my best customers!”

And then—a voice cut through the noise.

“That’s enough.”

Everyone turned.

Sonia Goodwin stood at the edge of their table. Stunning in an emerald green jumpsuit that shimmered under the club lights, her thick curls tied back, a look of fury on her face. She wasn’t just beauty; she was legacy. Power. Grace. And unlike the others, she had a heart. Daughter of Kennedy Goodwin, CEO of Wablo Corporation—$800 million, twice Ben’s worth, and a titan Ben groveled to for contracts. Sonia carried that weight effortlessly, her gaze leveling the group.

“Nathan. Jonathan. What the hell are you doing?” She snapped.

“He’s not one of us,” Seth said casually.

“He just lost his mother, you psychopaths,” Sonia snapped back. “And your father kicked him out like a dog. And now you mock him? At least pretend to be human!”

They fell silent.

Sonia pointed at Jamie. “I’m hosting my birthday party tomorrow aboard the Lady Goodwin—and Jamie is invited.”

Everyone gasped. The Lady Goodwin was the pride of Wablo Corporation’s fleet, a floating palace. An invite to that party was more than social currency—it was a mark of status. The best influencers, celebrities, and heirs of Hollywood fought for a seat at that table.

Sonia stared down at the group. “You keep mocking him, you lose your invite.”

That got their attention. Even Nathan dropped his glass. Of course, none of them wanted to lose their invite to Sonia’s party, especially for someone like Jamie. His torture can be postponed for later.

Before he could take the invite, a voice boomed from the shadows. 

“He’s not stepping foot on Lady Goodwin.” 

The crowd parted, and Tyson Crook strode in—six-foot-three, chiseled jaw, eyes that commanded worship. Twelve Oscars by twenty-six, $1 billion net worth, heir to the $7 billion Crook dynasty. Hollywood’s golden boy, a third-generation star whose family’s studio thrived on Ashford-backed Glendon Hill Group cash. He was untouchable, and he loathed Jamie’s kind—nobodies who dared breathe his air.

Tyson’s glare fixed on Sonia, then Jamie. “What’s this, Sonia? Defending the help?” 

His tone dripped insecurity, a king rattled by a pawn. The Goodwins and Crooks were negotiating a marriage—Sonia’s elegance and Tyson’s fame a perfect merger. He didn’t know Jamie, but her kindness to him was a threat he couldn’t stomach.

Sonia’s expression shifted from rage to restrained irritation. Jamie stood still, unsure if this moment was real or if his mind had finally cracked.

Tyson approached the group like a lion walking into its den. His black designer suit hugged his chiseled frame, every inch of him oozing status and confidence.

“Sonia,” he said with a smile, “let’s go.”

She blinked. “Tyson, I was having a conversation.”

“With the busboy?” he said, cocking an eyebrow. “Come on.”

The club held its breath.

Tyson didn’t look at Jamie. Not once. To him, Jamie was a shadow. He merely took Sonia’s hand, gently but firmly, and led her away from the group. Cameras clicked. Someone whispered. People murmured as they passed.

Jamie stood, unable to move. For a second, he’d believed someone actually cared. For a second, he’d had hope.

But Sonia was gone.

And now Nathan was laughing again. “Oh man, that was epic! Tyson just schooled you, Jamie!”

Jonathan smirked. “You should’ve known your place.”

Meghan turned back to her phone. “So embarrassing.”

Seth leaned in. “Go get us a bottle of Dom Pérignon. The one that costs fifty grand. And hurry. We’re expecting someone.”

Jamie dragged himself to the bar. He had no idea who was coming next. But he knew it couldn’t be good.

The universe had made it clear tonight.

He was on his own.