Fifty Thousand Reasons To Hate You

It was during Truth or Dare at the alumni reunion, and the former campus queen was wasted.
Someone asked her the most despicable thing shed ever done.
She pointed across the booth at me, giggling hysterically.
I used his phone to delete his poor little girlfriends desperate plea for help while he was in the showerand then I texted back: Drop dead!
You guys wouldnt believe it, that pauper waited outside in the rain all night. It was the funniest thing Ive ever seen
Laughter erupted through the private room.
Except for the man seated at the head of the table. The crystal wine glass in his hand shattered with a sickening crunch.
Blood mixed with red wine streamed down his fingers.
He stared at me, his eyes bloodshot, like he was seconds from murder.
I calmly slid a napkin toward him. Mr. Rhys, you should wipe up. Its soiled.
Some things, once stained, can never be washed clean.
1
The Carlyle Club, Manhattans most exclusive private membership space, was entirely booked for the evening.
The word was, a newly minted venture capital titan, worth nine figures, had returned from overseas and wanted to flaunt his success to his old college crowd.
When the manager handed me the gold-embossed wine list, his eyes held a fleeting, unreadable pity.
Scout, Mr. Davies said, his voice low. Its the V888 suite tonight If you dont want to go, I can assign someone else.
I adjusted my ill-fitting server uniform, offering him a faint smile.
Its fine, Mr. Davies. Thats our highest-spending suite. The corkage fees alone will net me a decent bonus. I need the cash, you know.
He sighed, patted my shoulder, and walked away.
I pushed open the door to the V888 suite, the heat wave hitting me instantly, thick with the scent of expensive perfume, Cuban cigars, and something elsethe dizzying, nauseating smell of burning money.
In the center of the plush leather sofa sat the man I hadnt seen in seven years.
He had changed completely.
Gone was the memory of the fiercely proud, intensely stubborn boy in a faded hoodie and threadbare jeans.
In his place sat a polished, cold-eyed business mogul, exuding the effortless authority of a true power player.
He was leaning back, listening to someone next to him, a detached, almost bored smirk playing on his lips.
And nestled against him was the woman who had stolen him from me all those years ago: Genevieve Gen Sinclair.
Gen was draped in a custom white Chanel dress, her neck flashing with a diamond necklace that caught the ambient light like a beacon. She swirled the contents of her wine glass, radiating the smug arrogance of a proud swan.
Oh, Holdens back in the States mainly for me, of course. Hes shifting his company headquarters because well, were finally getting engaged.
A chorus of sycophantic praise immediately erupted.
The campus beauty and the braina match made in heaven!
Holden, youre on the cover of Forbes now. Gen, you lucked out!
Its the ultimate turnaround story. Unlike some people who traded up for cash and bailedbet theyre regretting that decision now, huh?
The intentional barb hung in the air, and for a silent second, every eye in the room pivoted to me, where I stood in the corner, expertly uncorking a bottle.
I felt nothing. Like a numb marionette, I sliced the foil with a corkscrew, twisted the worm, and slowly pulled the stopper.
Bordeaux, Left Bank. Optimal pour after twenty minutes of decanting.
I poured the breathing wine into the massive crystal goblet in front of Holden Rhys, my movements flawless, professional.
Holden finally raised his head.
His stare was a devastating cocktail: contempt, disgust, raw hatred, and a subtle flicker of something deeperan arrogant indifference.
He didn't reach for the glass, allowing me to hold it suspended in the air.
My wrist, fatigued from balancing the heavy serving tray, gave a tiny, involuntary tremor.
Scout Davis? He finally spoke, his voice a low, gravelly baritone.
I heard you dropped out of NYU before graduation. What happened? Did your trust-fund boyfriend get bored and toss you out? Now you're scraping by, serving drinks in places like this?
The room fell silent, the audience waiting for the spectacle.
Gen theatrically covered her mouth, feigning shock as she looked at me. Oh my God, it is Scout! How how are you dressed like that?
Honey, if youre really hard up, just tell me. Even though you threw Holden over for money, were still old classmates. Id be happy to arrange something for youmaybe a janitorial position at my fathers firm.
She deliberately lingered on the phrase: threw Holden over for money.
The whispers of judgment started, a fine, biting spray.
Serves her right. Holden was so devoted back then.
Thats karma. Look at the CEO he is nowbillions. And her? Waiting tables.
The tides turn, you know? Thirty years down the road
I listened to the stinging comments with a blank expression, as if they were discussing a stranger.
Seven years.
I had built a fortress around my heart.
Id worked in the darkest corners of this citywashing dishes in scorching kitchens, moving inventory in freezing cold storage, being splashed with drinks by drunk patrons, and being screamed at by landlords calling me a beggar.
Dignity. That broken thing had been pulverized into dust on that rainy night, seven years ago.
Mr. Rhys, your wine, I repeated, my voice steady.
Holden fixed his gaze on my eyes, clearly searching for a hint of remorse, shame, or even tears.
He was disappointed.
My eyes contained nothing but endless fatigue and a chilling, vacant numbness.
My indifference seemed to infuriate him.
He suddenly raised his hand and slammed it down, violently knocking the wine glass out of my grasp.
This vintage is too common, Holden said, pulling a crisp linen napkin from his pocket to wipe his hand. His eyes were arctic.
Get me something else. A bottle with some real age. Something like that night, seven years ago.
He was humiliating me.
Seven years ago, he was still a penniless college student who'd saved up for three months to buy a single bottle of cheap, corner-store red wine for my birthday.
We drank it straight from the bottle on the cold grass of the campus quad, our faces flushed, promising to stay together forever.
Now, he was using that same memory to remind me of the price of betrayal.
Gen giggled, playing along. Oh, Holden, don't be so hard on her. That wine costs a fortuneshe couldn't pay for the broken glass if she sold everything she owns. Just apologize to Mr. Rhys, Scout, wipe up the mess, and well let it go.
I knelt, retrieved a cloth, and began to carefully blot the scarlet stain from the expensive Persian rug.
A tiny shard of crystal glass embedded itself in my fingertip, a sharp, familiar stab of pain.
I didn't flinch.
I merely calculated in my head: Thats my commission gone. Plus the cost of the glass. Tonights workmaybe half a month's wagesis now a loss.
This was my life now.
No romance, no poetry, only the brutal arithmetic of bills I couldn't pay and debts I couldn't outrun.
As for love? That was a luxury only the rich could afford.
My apologies, Mr. Rhys.
I finished cleaning the last trace of wine, stood up, and maintained my humble, subservient posture.
I will inform the manager to send up the finest bottle we have.
Holden looked at the small bead of blood welling up on my finger. His pupil constricted momentarily, but the mask of icy indifference returned instantly.
Get out.
2.
I didn't get out.
Because Mr. Davies told me the client in V888 had specifically requested my service for the duration of the night.
If I left, Id lose the mandatory two-thousand-dollar tip and potentially have my base pay docked.
I desperately needed the money.
My mothers dialysis next month hadn't been covered yet, and the landlord was already texting about next quarter's rent.
So, I went to the restroom to quickly bandage the cut, and then I returned to that suffocating, velvet-lined suite.
When I pushed the door open again, the atmosphere had shifted.
Three rounds of drinks in, the impeccably tailored elite had started to drop their pretenses, revealing the ugly core of humanity beneath.
They were playing Truth or Dare.
It was a trite, yet endlessly effective gameespecially fueled by alcoholthe perfect tool to rip the veneer off human decency.
The marble table was littered with empty bottles: Louis XIII, Rmy Martin, Ace of Spades
The combined cost of those bottles was enough for me to buy a closet-sized studio apartment in the outer boroughs.
Gen was clearly drunk.
Her cheeks were flushed, and she was practically draped over Holden, her eyes hazy, almost feverish with triumph.
She was the star of the night, the biggest winner. The prospect of marrying Holden and becoming the envied Mrs. Rhys had made her reckless, almost giddy with hubris.
Alright, alright! Next round! The class president, an awkward man named Sam, slurred his words.
Who gets it this time?
The empty magnum bottle spun quickly across the slick marble table, making a grating, unpleasant sound.
Everyone held their breath, their eyes glued to the bottle's neck.
Slowly, it stopped.
The bottle pointed directly at Gen.
Ooh! Jackpot for the campus queen!
Truth or Dare?
Gen let out a throaty laugh, waving a dismissive hand. Truth! This princess has nothing to hide!
Sam rubbed his hands together with a malicious grin, his eyes bouncing between me and Gen. He was clearly looking to stir up trouble.
Fine, lets go with a juicy one. Gen, what is the most despicable, most heartless thing youve ever done in your entire life?
The question dropped into the room like a stone.
They were all adults; who didn't have a few dirty secrets?
But this was a game, and the point was the shock value.
Holden, who had been resting his eyes, merely lifted an eyelid at the question, offering no objection.
In his mind, Gen was merely spoiled and occasionally petty, but certainly not capable of true malice.
Gen let out a small burp, her gaze suddenly slicing through the crowd to land on me, where I was standing in the corner pouring water for a guest.
A vile, triumphant smile curled her lips.
The alcohol had dulled her judgment and amplified the jealousy and spite buried deep in her heart.
The most despicable thing, you ask
Gen stumbled to her feet, her finger aimed directly at me.
It was seven years ago, the night of that huge thunderstorm. I went to Holdens shabby little rental
At the mention of seven years ago, my hand convulsed, and the hot water in the carafe nearly sloshed over the rim.
Holdens body, too, stiffened almost imperceptibly.
Gen burst into hysterical laughter, as if recounting the most hilarious anecdote.
Holden was in the shower. His cheap phone was on the table. And guess what? This pauper, Scout, texts him.
And guess what she said? Hahahaha She wrote: Holden, please save my dad. I beg you. I only need fifty thousand. Ill be your servant forever.
Tsk, tsk, tsk. So pathetic, so utterly desperate.
I thought, Holden is so brilliant, he cant be saddled with this kind of trash! He belongs with me, in the big leagues, not dragged down into the mud by some bottom-feeder!
So She paused for dramatic effect, her eyes gleaming with a manic spark.
I did Holden a favor.
I deleted her frantic text, and then I texted back from his phone. Just two words: Drop dead.
Hahahahaha! You should have seen it! The pauper actually waited outside in the rain all night! I watched her from the window, soaked like a drowned rat, watching her sink to her knees in despair. It was the best laugh Ive ever had!
Seriously, didnt I do a great thing? If I hadnt done that, how could Holden have shed that anchor? How could he have become the man he is today? Holden, you should be thanking me
Gens voice was cut off by the sharp sound of shattering glass.
Holden had crushed his wine glass with his bare hand.
The fragments were deeply embedded in his palm. Blood mixed with red wine, dripping onto the pristine white tablecloth, a horrifying tableau.
But he seemed completely oblivious to the pain.
He was staring intensely at Gen, his normally cold eyes now streaked with crimson veins.
What did you say?
Gen, still basking in her own cruelty, hadn't registered the danger. I said I helped you get rid of that poor
Shut up! Holden violently overturned the mahogany coffee table in front of him.
The deafening crash made Gen scream, the shock sobering her instantly.
She looked up in terror at the man towering over her, who looked like an enraged lion. HoHolden, what is it? I was just kidding
Kidding?
Holden stumbled to his feet, closing the distance between them.
Are you saying that seven years ago, she didn't run off with Dean Kincaid, the rich guy? She didn't text me saying she was leaving because I was poor?
Are you saying she was in a hospital? She was begging me for help?
His voice grew louder, culminating in a raw, animalistic roar.
Gen was so terrified by his presence that she sank back onto the sofa.
Holden didn't even spare her another glance.
He spun around, his attention locked on me in the corner.
Scout He choked out my name, a sound like a sob tearing from his throat.
Is she telling the truth?
That night were you waiting for me?
The entire room was paralyzed, everyone too terrified to even breathe.
I set the water carafe down. I looked at the truth that had taken seven years to surface, and my heart felt frighteningly empty.
Too late.
It was truly, devastatingly too late.
I pulled a tissue from my uniform pocket, walked over, and held it out to him.
Mr. Rhys, wipe your hand. Its bleeding everywhere. Its dirty.
Holden ignored the tissue. He lunged and grabbed my wrist.
Answer me, Scout! Tell me this isnt real!
I looked into his bloodshot eyes and smiled, gently.
And what if it is? Holden Rhys.

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