Agatha Vega: I love cock for my asshole!

A high-maintenance beauty makes a waiter work for his gratuity.

The restaurant was called Lumière, and it was the kind of place where the waiters wore suits and the clientele wore masks of studied indifference. Marcus had been working here for two years, long enough to develop a sixth sense for trouble. He could spot it walking through the door—the slight tilt of a chin, the flicker of an eye, the particular way certain people settled into their chairs like they were doing the establishment a favor.

Tonight, trouble arrived at 7:42, ten minutes late and utterly unapologetic.

She was beautiful in the way that expensive things are beautiful—polished, deliberate, designed to be admired rather than touched. Dark hair swept up to reveal a neck that belonged in a portrait. A dress that probably cost more than Marcus’s monthly rent, in a shade of red that demanded attention. Her companion, a man in an equally expensive suit, followed a half-step behind, already reaching for his phone before they’d even sat down.

Marcus approached with his best professional smile. “Good evening. Welcome to Lumière. Can I start you with something from the bar?”

The woman barely glanced at him. “The table is too close to the door. We need to move.”

Marcus kept his smile in place. “I understand. Let me check if we have anything available—”

“Check faster. I can feel a draft.” She settled into her chair anyway, not waiting for his response, already scanning the menu like the conversation was over.

Her companion—husband? boyfriend? client?—muttered something apologetic without looking up from his phone. Marcus nodded and retreated to consult the seating chart.

This was going to be a long night.

He found them a new table, farther from the door, better positioned for privacy. The woman inspected it like she was evaluating a crime scene, then sat without acknowledgment. Marcus took their drink orders—a martini for her, extra dry, three olives, specifically not the ones they usually used; whiskey for him, neat, a brand that cost more per bottle than Marcus made in a week.

The drinks came. The martini was wrong.

“I said extra dry.” Her voice could have frozen the ocean. “This is wet. I can taste the vermouth.”

Marcus apologized, replaced the drink, watched her sip it with the expression of someone searching for something to criticize. Finding none, she moved on to the food.

The menu at Lumière was extensive, French-inspired, full of terms most customers couldn’t pronounce and preparations most wouldn’t understand. The woman knew exactly what she wanted—or claimed to. She asked about modifications, substitutions, possibilities the kitchen hadn’t considered. Could they leave out the butter? Use a different oil? Prepare the sauce on the side, but not too far on the side, and actually, could he ask the chef about adding truffle?

Marcus wrote it all down, nodded at each request, assured her that the kitchen would do everything possible to accommodate. Her companion ordered the steak without looking at the menu, then returned to his phone.

When Marcus returned with the appetizers, she’d moved on to a new complaint. The bread basket. Specifically, the butter.

“This is salted. I asked for unsalted. I specifically said unsalted when we sat down.”

Marcus looked at the butter, at her, at the faint smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. She was testing him. Enjoying it. Seeing how far she could push before he cracked.

“I apologize. I’ll bring unsalted immediately.”

He brought unsalted. She spread it on bread, took a bite, set it down without comment. No thank you. No acknowledgment that he’d solved the problem. Just the faint, satisfied expression of someone who’d won a point in a game only she was playing.

The main course arrived without incident—miraculously, given the complexity of her modifications. She ate in silence, her companion occasionally looking up from his phone to offer observations that she dismissed with a wave. Marcus kept his distance but watched closely, ready to respond to the next demand.

It came with dessert.

“The chocolate soufflé. I had it here last month and it was perfect. Tonight, I want the same thing. Can you guarantee that?”

Marcus considered his options. He could assure her that the pastry chef was excellent, that they’d do their best, that he was confident she’d be satisfied. But something in her eyes told him those answers wouldn’t be enough.

“I’ll speak to the chef personally,” he said. “I’ll make sure he knows exactly what you’re expecting.”

Something flickered in her expression—surprise, maybe, or respect. “You’ll do that?”

“I want you to have the best possible experience tonight.” He met her eyes, steady and professional. “That’s my job. That’s what I’m here for.”

She held his gaze for a long moment, and something shifted between them. Not attraction, exactly—something more complicated. Recognition, maybe. Two people playing roles in a script neither had written.

“Do that,” she said quietly. “I’d appreciate it.”

Marcus nodded and went to the kitchen.

The soufflé was perfect. Of course it was—the pastry chef took pride in his work and responded to challenges with quiet determination. Marcus carried it to the table himself, setting it before her with a small flourish.

She took a bite. Closed her eyes. Nodded.

“Thank you,” she said. Not to her companion, who was still on his phone. To Marcus. “This is exactly what I wanted.”

“You’re welcome. Enjoy.”

He stepped away, giving her space, but watched from across the room as she ate every bite. Her companion never looked up.

When the meal ended, Marcus brought the check on a silver tray. Her companion grabbed it without looking, slid a card inside, signed without reading the total. The woman watched all of this with an expression Marcus couldn’t quite read—sadness, maybe. Or resignation.

As they stood to leave, she caught his eye. “You did well tonight.”

“Thank you. I hope you’ll visit us again.”

She smiled, and for just a moment, the mask slipped. Beneath the high-maintenance exterior was someone exhausted, someone lonely, someone who’d learned that the only way to get attention was to demand it.

“Maybe I will.” She extended her hand, and Marcus shook it—warm, brief, professional. “What’s your name?”

“Marcus.”

“I’m Celeste. And Marcus?” She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. “The tip is in cash. Under the plate. You earned every dollar.”

She swept out without looking back, her companion trailing behind, already on another call. Marcus returned to the table, lifted the plate, and found more than he’d made in the past three nights combined.

He stood there for a long moment, holding the money, thinking about the woman who’d made him work so hard for it. She’d tested him, pushed him, demanded more than anyone had a right to demand. But in the end, she’d also seen him. Acknowledged him. Paid him not just for his service, but for his grace under pressure.

Marcus tucked the money into his pocket and went back to work. There were other tables, other customers, other nights. But he knew he’d remember Celeste—the high-maintenance beauty who’d made him work for his gratuity, and then rewarded him for passing her test.

Some tips, he thought, were about more than money. Some tips were about being seen.