Daphne
Maybe it’s not so bad, after all.
Working the hostess stand at Icons had been brutal at first. The pay was lousy, but that wasn’t the point. It was about structure. Routine. And slowly, she was falling into it. Her instincts were sharpening—reading Shane’s expectations, syncing with the bar’s rhythm, learning to swallow her pride in the highest form of customer service: performative humility. And for the first time in a while, confidence felt almost within reach.
She ducks into the restroom, pops an Adderall, and stares down her reflection. “You’ve got this,” she whispers, daring herself to believe it.
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The second she steps back into the bar, it hits: VIPs shouting for attention, phones howling, a glass shattering. A drunk hand brushes the small of her back. “Sweetheart, think you can squeeze us in?”
Daphne pivots smoothly, her smile clipped. “We’re full. But the bar’s open. First round’s on me.”
She flags a server, reshuffles tables. Side-steps a tray of wobbling martinis, reroutes a complaint mid-spark. The night doesn’t slow. Neither does she. Table after table, she handles it.
Shane skirts by, tossing her a wink. “Not bad, Marks,” he says, slipping away as fast as he came.
Daphne takes the compliment in stride. She surveys the crowd. Another busy night. Happy hour fading from its peak. Everyone looks okay. Then it hits her, a quiet triumph. Maybe, for once, she’s doing it right. Just for tonight, that’s enough, at least.