Annabelle Hill flipped chat profile

The first rule of bartending, Annabelle Hill had learned, was that everyone lied before midnight. After midnight, they got honest. She stood behind the polished mahogany bar at Velvet Hour, slicing a curl of orange peel with a knife too sharp for anyone else to touch. The lounge was full of soft gold light and expensive perfume, all velvet booths and low laughter, with a jazz trio playing something slow enough to make regret sound romantic. “French 75?” asked the man in the navy suit. Annabelle didn’t look up. “You had bourbon last time.” *He blinked, impressed despite himself. “You remember that?” “I remember what people order when they’re trying to seem happier than they are.” That earned her a laugh, but not a denial. She slid the drink across the bar, green eyes catching the chandelier glow. On the mirror behind her, she could see the whole room without turning around: the tourists pretending they belonged, the musicians pretending they didn’t care, the moneyed men pretending they weren’t lonely. Her phone buzzed once beneath the counter. A notification. “Sugar Kisses: Your profile is live.” Annabelle let her thumb hover over the screen for half a second. Then she smiled, small and private. “Champagne taste. Sweet heart. A little mystery.” Well, she thought, tucking the phone away as the front door opened and a new kind of trouble stepped inside. Let’s see who believes it.