The sun was already slanting in the sky when Bea and Rupert parked in front of the Montenegro. Six o’clock sharp. The street shone under that deceptive golden light, as if the world were better than it really was. The bar, however, seemed to live in another time zone, one where the day didn’t matter. Trucks unloaded boxes with rehearsed urgency, waiters rushed balancing stacks of glasses that clinked like nervous bells, technicians argued with microphones hissing like trapped insects, and the muffled sound of instruments being tuned vibrated off the stone walls like a warning no one seemed to want to hear.

In recent months, Bea breathed as if trying to draw air through a narrow funnel. Each inhalation required effort; each exhalation was accompanied by that insistent, low, and cruel question: why? Why get up? Why put on the uniform? Why go through yet another door? Not even the light that filtered through the cracks in the facade seemed to reach her. Still, she was there – the vest too tight on her chest, the special badge hanging from her neck, a printed code that opened invisible corridors. Small privileges granted to those who would serve champagne to people who would never look her in the eye.

That night, Montenegro wasn’t just a bar. It was a stage. A setting meticulously crafted for an ostentatious opera. The protagonist was Auguste Heidenreich, founder of A&H, a magnate who despised cake but venerated his own reflection. They said he avoided parties – except his own. Always there. Always shielded. Always exclusive. As if the world needed to be reminded, year after year, who was in charge.

Bea crossed the sliding hallway, trying to ignore the scent of gardenias that permeated the air and made her stomach churn. The anthracite walls reflected gold frames, too discreet to be anything less than pricey. Luxury seemed to emerge even from the cracks, she thought. Even the silence there seemed expensive.

“All this for an old man who doesn’t even like cake…” he muttered, blowing away a stray strand of hair from his forehead.

“He doesn’t like cake, but he loves having people orbiting him,” Bea replied, making no effort to hide her disdain. “Narcissist is an understatement.”

Rupert chuckled softly.

“Still cynical. Good to see that at least life hasn’t stolen that from you.”

She didn’t smile back. There were days when she could pretend it was just tiredness, that all she needed was another night’s sleep or another strong coffee. Not that day. The weight had returned with full force, like a soaked coat clinging to her skin in the middle of summer. Every step required a decision. Every gesture seemed bigger than her.

Still, she kept going. Because stopping was never an option. Because nobody notices when someone is sinking, as long as they keep walking in a straight line.

And Bea was always walking.

As they crossed the hall toward the break room, something seemed off. It wasn’t immediately apparent, but she sensed a discord in the air. The security guards were more numerous than usual and spoke too softly into their headsets, their jaws clenched, their eyes constantly moving. The other employees walked with excessive caution, as if the floor might give way with any misstep. It could simply be the collective anxiety that precedes big events. But Bea knew it wasn’t just that.

Her thoughts returned, against her will, to the man from the previous night. The stranger with gray eyes. The way he had said her name. Not as if asking. As if confirming.

Why had he recognized her?

And, even more unsettling, why was she so sure it wasn’t over?

At 5:30 p.m., Strand clapped his hands in the center of the hall. The dry sound echoed off the crystal chandeliers like a military command.

“Break time! Groups of up to five. I want everyone fed before the guests arrive.”

The groups formed too quickly, as if everyone had been waiting for that break. Bea stayed with Rupert, Strand, Daniel – the new waiter, in his early twenties, with a smile too big for someone trembling inside – and Ronald, the veteran security guard. A broad, solid man, with the kind of gaze that seemed to register everything and forget nothing.

They were led to one of the private rooms, transformed into an improvised dining room. The table was set with sandwiches, cut fruit, bottles of water, and thermoses of black coffee. The smell of coffee immediately hit her and drew her back to other early mornings, those in which the world seemed suspended, as if it had stopped spinning, and she would wait for the light to change on the other side of the window just to be sure that time still existed.

She sat at the end of the table, between Rupert and Ronald. She unwrapped the sandwich without any enthusiasm and chewed out of obligation, not hunger. Eating was just another mechanical gesture to prevent her body from failing prematurely. Outside, the noise didn’t stop: microphones crackling, protocol lists being recited over the radio, the deep rumble of the first luxury cars parking in front of the main entrance.

Each sound pierced her chest like a high, insistent note. The anxiety didn’t scream; it pressed down, constantly. Even so, Bea kept a neutral face. She had learned early on that no one notices what isn’t shown.

Rupert nudged her arm lightly.

“Everything will be alright. The night will pass by quickly.”

She shrugged. She didn’t have the energy to lie or agree. The truth was, she didn’t expect anything to turn out well. Hope was a distant, almost archaeological word, belonging to a language she had forgotten from lack of use. What kept her going wasn’t optimism, but a silent obstinacy, that stubborn will to keep walking just to find out how far the dark tunnel went before deciding to stop.

Ronald watched her silently. Not in an intrusive way, but attentively, like someone identifying an almost invisible crack in a crystal glass. Bea looked away. Her own mind was already enough, trying to decipher her, asking questions to which she had no answers, or courage.

When Strand announced the end of the snack, she took a deep breath, or as deep as that internal funnel allowed, and stood up. The air entered shallow, insufficient, as always. There were still glasses to polish until they shone too brightly, towels to align meticulously, service routes to repeat in her head like a mantra. And, hovering over all of this, there was a premonition. Not exactly fear. More the opaque certainty that something, or someone, would appear to shift the night off its axis and mark it in a way that wouldn’t be easily erased.

For now, it was enough to remember to put one foot in front of the other. That’s all. Sometimes, continuing was already too ambitious a plan.

Daniel craned his neck until his nose was almost touching the half-open blinds and spoke with the excitement of someone who still believed that there was something magical about it all.

“Did you see the size of the cars on the street? There was one guy who didn’t even touch the door handle; the car door went up by itself!”

Rupert bit into the apple forcefully, as if chewing on his own patience.

“Welcome to the kingdom of the weird rich,” he growled, his mouth still full. “Soon you’ll get used to seeing money flaunting itself in increasingly ridiculous ways.”

“This is pure spectacle,” Strand finished, settling into his chair with the weariness of someone who had seen it all too many times. “You only need to learn two things: when to ignore and when to smile.”

Ronald let out a short sound, almost a laugh, almost a warning.

“Ignoring things is usually the safest option.”

Bea didn’t join the chorus. She squeezed the water bottle cap until the plastic creaked under her fingers. They were trembling – a small, treacherous tremor that she tried to hide under the table. Her stomach remained closed, airtight, as if food were a threat. Still, she had chewed half a sandwich. A minimal toll to keep standing.

Everything about her vibrated at a tense frequency, as if her entire body were preparing for an impact that didn’t yet have a name.

Rupert leaned towards her and lowered his voice until it was almost a breeze in her ear.

“Everything will be alright. It’s just a bunch of suits with inflated egos… and doubled security. Nothing to worry about.”

Bea didn’t answer. She simply nodded slightly, like someone accepting a promise without being able to believe it.

Bea forced a smile. An automatic gesture, too small to be genuine, that died before reaching her eyes. Her pulse responded with a discreet throbbing – not actual pain, but the insistent, ghostly memory of the previous day. Of the sprain that hadn’t happened. Of the voice that had said her name as if she were a forgotten object in an old drawer, something that had always belonged to her and had only just been rediscovered.

Daniel, completely oblivious, resumed his chatter.

“Do you think old Heidenreich will actually show up? They say he’s sick.”

“He always shows up,” Strand replied, already checking his watch. “Even if it’s just for a five-minute speech. And if he disappears afterwards, all the better for us. Fewer people to watch.”

Bea listened to everything as if she were a step behind her own body, displaced from the conversation, from the space, from herself. The word ‘appears’ echoed wrongly within her. Not because of Heidenreich. Because of the other. The man who shouldn’t exist and yet insisted on occupying her thoughts like a mistake that cannot be erased.

She straightened her shoulders, picked up the tray, and followed the others back into the hall. The lights were being precisely adjusted. The background music was getting a little louder. The night was officially beginning.

And Bea had an uneasy feeling that at some point during that carefully rehearsed show, something was going to go wrong. Not explosively. But silently. Intimately. The kind that doesn’t make a sound, only leaves marks.

Ronald crossed his arms; the fabric of his suit creaked against his broad biceps, a dry sound, as if something had been stretched too tightly.

“Sick or not, he still wields more power than half the entire cabinet.”

Rupert swallowed the last piece of apple and wiped his fingers on the napkin with exaggerated care, as if the gesture could erase the comment.

“When a place is going to be full of important people, the atmosphere changes,” he said. “It gets… colder.”

The shiver came before Bea could disagree. It slowly, persistently, climbed up her spine. She couldn’t tell if it came from the conversation, the memory of the previous night, or that constant premonition – a broken radar that beeped even when everything seemed quiet. Maybe it was all of them together. Maybe it was just her.

Strand jumped up.

“Recess is over. Second team, on standby. Forty minutes until the doors open.”

The chairs creaked as everyone stood up. Ronald was the last. He checked the radio strapped to his belt, discreetly tested the microphone on his wrist, and, as he passed Bea, cast a quick, almost sympathetic glance, almost a warning. He said nothing. He didn’t need to.

The door closed behind them, leaving only the constant hum of the air conditioner and a few forgotten crumbs on the white tablecloth.

Bea remained there for a moment, motionless, as if her body had forgotten the next command. She tried to decipher the noise beneath her own skin. Her heart was beating at an unusual rhythm – not fast, but heavy, as if each beat heralded something inevitable. Montenegro would not only be the setting for a party that night. It would be a borderline. A before and an after that she didn’t yet know how to name.

Finally, she stood up and returned to the counter – her little territory of order. She lined up the bottles by height, checked the corks, polished the metal, and arranged the crystal glasses until they formed an impeccable geometry. There was something almost liturgical about it. If inside everything was trembling, flawed, empty, and excessive all at once, at least the surface could obey simple rules. Ruler. Set square. Symmetry. Feigning control was also a way to survive.