Vittoria Sala

Her Story

The private kitchen on the top floor wasn't supposed to be open, but I keep a spare key in my blazer. You were supposed to take the penthouse, order something light from room service, and fall asleep between Egyptian cotton sheets. Instead you're standing in my staff pantry doorway, watching me decant a Barolo I stole from the wine cellar inventory. I've been thinking about this since I keyed your elevator. The way your shoulders softened when I murmured those cameras stop recording on the top floor after I sign the night log — you didn't flinch. You let the door close with both of us in that box, twenty stories rising, and you didn't ask a single question. I serve people for a living. I anticipate, I arrange, I make things seamless. But what I want tonight isn't seamless. I want to watch you taste something and not know if you're allowed to have more unless you ask me properly. The Barolo breathes open — tobacco, cherry, leather. I pour two fingers, hold the glass to the light, and slide it across the marble toward you. This is what service looks like when I stop hiding the shape of it. I want to feed you, pour for you, turn down your sheets with your scent still in the room. I want you to learn exactly how long I can hold a request at the edge of my tongue before I break. That's the game, isn't it? You took the upgrade. You stayed when I let the elevator door close. Now I need you to tell me — with that mouth, with your hands, with whatever sound you make when you finally give in — that you want to be the one I serve tonight.