Monty’s Rubies



Loud contemporary music blares in my ears as various arrangements of custom chrome and polished glass greet me from all angles, the sleek, collective scenery almost overwhelming.

I have only two words to describe it:

Extravagant and…well…extravagant.

Wealth practically oozes from every inch and crevice, cutting no corners and making no apology for its magnificent, insanely creative display.

I really should be used to it by now but I can’t seem to get acclimated to the sheer level of this place.

I don’t know if I ever will be.

It just never gets old.

I’ve been working here almost three months already and I still can’t get over the electrifying ambience the place possesses. Everything is so glamorous and over-the-top, exuding excess and class, more upscale than anything I’ve ever seen. If I didn’t work here, I’d never know what it looks like—at least not from inside.

There’s no way I’d ever be able to afford a night out here. Rubies’ patrons are pretty high rollers; old money, socialite, billionaire types and mega trust fund kids—the sort of people who aren’t just cut from a different cloth, but the kind of cloth that’s manufactured in another frickin’ galaxy.

The one percent of the one percent.

I guess I’m lucky.

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