The Eight Dollar Lemonade Revenge

When I opened my eyes again, I was standing outside a private suite in a five-star hotel, clutching a delivery tray.

My blue courier windbreaker was stained with grease, and on the tray sat two plastic cups of cheap lemonade—supposedly the "hangover cure" for the two power players inside.

The memories of my previous life hit me like a physical blow. In that life, my boss had slammed those cups against my chest, the lukewarm liquid soaking through my shirt.

"Who told you to bring this garbage? I ordered the Lobster and Truffle Bisque!" his roar had vibrated in my eardrums.