New Identity

Belinda remained frozen, too stunned to react. The humiliation burned, but Valerie’s composure only made it worse.

---

Later that evening, Valerie found herself in the grimiest part of South City, seeking refuge in a dingy boarding house. She rented a small, bare room with the last of her money. The mattress was thin, and the smell of mildew hung in the air, but it was a place to rest.

Determined to rebuild her life, Valerie began looking for work the next morning. Every potential employer turned her away after learning about her prison record. After days of rejections, her desperation grew, and she used the last of her funds to purchase a fake ID under the name Layla Young.

With her new identity, Valerie managed to secure a job as a waitress at an upscale restaurant. The pay was modest, but it was enough to survive. She threw herself into her work, determined to prove herself.

Three weeks later, her diligence and quiet professionalism earned her a promotion. She was assigned to serve in the VIP section, reserved for the restaurant’s most affluent and influential guests.

“Layla,” the manager said, handing her the new assignment, “The VIP rooms are different. These guests demand discretion and perfection. Make sure to treat them with the utmost care.”

Valerie nodded, her new name already feeling like second nature. “I understand. I won’t let you down.”

Over the next week, Valerie adapted to the demands of the VIP section, her poised demeanor winning over even the most difficult patrons. Though the work was exhausting, it offered her a sliver of hope—a step toward a life far removed from the one she had left behind.

During the break, a group of waitresses gathered near the lockers, chatting animatedly. One of them nudged Layla playfully.

“Layla, you’re so lucky to get assigned to the VIP rooms so quickly. With your height, tiny face, and those legs, you could be a flight attendant, a model, or even work in showbiz,” one said, her voice half admiring, half teasing.

Layla smiled faintly but said nothing, continuing to fold a napkin in her hands. She turned and walked away without engaging further.

The others exchanged glances, their expressions shifting.

“She’s so cold,” one muttered. “Just because she works in the VIP rooms, she thinks she’s above us?”

“She’s not even that stunning,” another added. “Her face is average, and it’s not like she’s some genius. What’s she got to be so proud of?”

A third waitress, who had been listening quietly, shrugged. “I don’t think she’s arrogant. She’s just... quiet. And dependable. Watch this.”

She stepped forward, feigning a weary look. “Layla, my stomach’s acting up. Can you take my tray to the VIP section?”

Layla paused and looked at her, her expression calm but unreadable. “Sure. Which room?”

“The Platinum VIP Room on the third floor,” the waitress said, handing over the tray with a grin. “Thanks a lot!”

Layla nodded and headed toward the elevator with the tray in hand, her steps measured and deliberate.

In the luxurious hallway on the third floor, she adjusted her uniform and pushed open the door to the Platinum VIP Room. She entered quietly, her focus entirely on setting the dishes without disturbing the guests.

But as she placed a glass of wine on the table, a firm hand grabbed her wrist. Layla froze, her heart skipping a beat. She slowly looked up to meet the gaze of a man standing beside her.

His cold, penetrating eyes locked onto hers, his grip unyielding but not painful. His presence was commanding, and the faint smirk tugging at his lips sent a shiver down her spine.

“How convenient,” the man said, his voice low and edged with amusement. “Did you know I’d be here, Layla?”

The air in the room grew tense as Layla struggled to process the moment, her wrist still caught in his firm grasp.

Victor had been searching for Valerie for a full month. Just when he began to think his investigation might have been too harsh, she appeared before him—serving as a waitress in the very room reserved exclusively for him. He had underestimated her. His eyes narrowed in disbelief as he realized she wasn't hiding; she was raising her stakes.

“Director Regal, is something wrong?” The restaurant manager, who had been accompanying Victor, could barely conceal his fear as he noticed the icy stare directed at him.

“How long has she been working here?” Victor's voice was dangerously low.

The manager stammered, “A...A month.”

A month? The same length of time since she had escaped from his family’s grasp. Victor's blood boiled—she wasn’t running away, she was simply positioning herself to negotiate a higher price. Damn her!

Valerie's eyes flickered with resentment as she met his gaze. It felt like a cruel twist of fate. Why did the world have to be so small?

"I don’t know what you’re implying," she said, her voice trembling with both fear and defiance. “Let go of me, or I’ll call the police.”

She twisted her wrist, trying to free herself from his iron grip, but he held on tight. The pain from his hold brought sweat to her brow.

The manager, panic-stricken, shouted at her, “Layla Young, how dare you!”

Victor sneered, his eyes burning with anger. “Layla Young? You think changing your name and hiding your past will fool anyone?”

At that moment, the lobby supervisor, the same waitress who had asked Valerie to cover her shift, hurried over but froze in fear at the scene unfolding.

Valerie felt her world collapse. She was just two days away from receiving her first paycheck. Now, everything was slipping away again. Her voice cracked as she cried out, “Why can’t you just leave me alone? Why?!”

Her frustration and anger overwhelmed her, and in a desperate move, she leaned in and bit down on Victor’s arm. His grip loosened just enough for her to yank her wrist free.

Without looking back, Valerie fled.