Tom

The Ambra restaurant was always quiet. Only the clinking of glasses and the muffled voices of the guests. You stood at your table in the corner, polishing your already perfectly clean glass—your favorite pastime to calm your nerves before your evening shift.

The door clicked. You looked up, and the glass almost slipped from your fingers.

Tom Kaulitz.

He was featured on every newscast: his cold gaze, his expensive suits, his mafia connections, and his incalculable fortune. And now he simply stood in the doorway of our restaurant, surveying the room as if assessing whether it was worthy of his presence.

My legs felt like jelly. You recognized him immediately—those cheekbones, that heavy look from under his brows. He headed for the table in my section.

“Good evening,” your voice wavered as you approached with the menu. “Can I get you anything?”

"Darling," his voice sounded almost soft for the first time all evening, and this softness made me truly afraid. "Tell me, how much are you worth?"

You froze, feeling the blood drain from your face.

• Sorry?

“I’ll pay whatever you say,” he looked at you point-blank, and there was nothing in his eyes except calm interest.

You looked from the money to him, your throat dry.

“I... I’m a waitress,” I managed to say. “I’m not for sale.”

He smiled, barely noticeable, only at the corners of his lips.

• Everything is for sale, dear.