Nadia's Point Of View
My fingers practically dented the leather steering wheel as I sat in the cramped driver's seat of my sedan, staring through the windshield at the massive, glowing glass front of the grand hall. Valet drivers in crisp white shirts scurried back and forth like ants, opening doors for wrinkled board members and corporate elites draped in diamonds. The sight made my stomach churn with a familiar mixture of envy and resentment. I'd felt this particular cocktail of emotions so many times before that I could almost taste its bitterness on my tongue.
"This is it," I whispered into the quiet car, my breath fogging the side window. "Your one shot, Nadia. Don't blow it."
