The first thing I lost that night wasn't my dignity.
It was the tray.
It slipped out of my hands like it had decided to quit on its own. Glasses, cutlery, plates — everything crashed down in a metallic explosion so loud even the pianist froze for half a second.
In a four-star restaurant, half a second of silence is a public execution.
"Yvan…" the floor supervisor whispered through my earpiece. "Tell me that wasn't you."
Too late.
Sauce on the floor. Broken glass. Client standing. Suit stained.
I bent down immediately.
"I'm sorry, sir — really sorry —"
"Watch it! Do you know how much this suit costs?"
More than three months of my salary. Easy.
"Clean up now!" someone barked behind me.
My hands were shaking. Not just from stress — from exhaustion. Up at 5:30. Classes. Surprise test. Bus ride standing. Then evening shift. Again.
I wasn't a waiter. I was a student majoring in survival.
"Breathe," I told myself.
Le Lys d'Argent wasn't a restaurant. It was a stage for the wealthy. Everything had to be smooth, invisible, perfect.
And I had just knocked down the scenery.
The conversations resumed — but quieter. Rich people don't raise their voices. They lower your future.
I was still picking up shards when I felt the change in the room.
No sound.
A presence.
The staff straightened. The maître d' walked faster. The pianist resumed — better than before.
Someone important had entered.
I looked up.
Black dress. Perfect cut. Not flashy — powerful. Silent heels. Straight posture. Steady gaze.
She didn't smile. She didn't need to.
It took me two seconds to recognize her.
Elena Varese.
CEO of Varese Holdings.
Luxury hotels. Premium restaurants. Real estate. Investments. We had studied her business model last week in class.
"Aggressive growth."
"Cold leadership."
"Record results."
No textbook mentioned her eyes.
She moved like someone who never asks for space — the world clears it.
I stepped aside — too late.
My foot slid on a streak of sauce.
My shoulder brushed her arm.
Contact.
Career over.
"Sorry — I—"
She looked at me.
Not angry. Not surprised. Not forgiving.
Analyzing.
Like a line of data.
"You work here," she said.
Not a question.
"Yes, ma'am."
"How long."
"Eight months."
The maître d' rushed in. "Madam Varese, I apologize, he's still in training—"
"I wasn't speaking to you."
He shut up instantly.
Her gaze returned to me.
"You're a student."
"Yes."
"Tired."
I didn't have enough energy to lie.
"Yes."
A tiny movement at the corner of her mouth. Not a smile. A conclusion.
"Table seven."
She walked past.
I stayed frozen with my cloth in hand.
"You just brushed against an economic earthquake," a coworker whispered.
"Who exactly is she?" I asked.
He stared at me. "You're kidding, right?"
Of course they sent me to table seven.
Restaurant logic: if you've already fallen, you can't fall much lower.
I carried a vintage bottle worth more than my yearly school expenses. My hands were steady now — fear sometimes creates precision.
She was alone.
No phone. No files. No assistant.
Just a glass of water.
"Your wine, ma'am."
"Pour."
I poured. Perfectly.
I turned to leave.
"When do you eat."
I blinked.
"Sorry?"
"You. Eat. When."
"After the shift."
"End time."
"About twelve-thirty."
"And tomorrow."
"Class at eight."
"Average sleep."
Why did this feel like being interviewed by a human algorithm?
"Four hours."
"Why this job."
"I need money."
"Family support."
"No."
Silence.
No pity. No judgment. Just processing.
"Come back after your shift."
"For…?"
"Discussion."
She opened the menu. Conversation over.
The rest of the service ran under tension. Every sneeze made me jump. Every glass clink made me check my grip.
12:38 a.m.
I exited through the staff door. Cold air hit my face. My brain switched to power-saving mode.
Bus. Homework. Two hours of sleep.
Then I saw the car.
Black. Long. Silent.
Door open.
She was there.
Not on her phone. Not waiting for someone.
Waiting for me.
I looked behind me. No one.
"Get in."
"I… take the bus."
"No."
Neutral tone. Final decision.
I got in.
Leather seats. Soft lighting. Total isolation.
The driver pulled away.
"Did I make a mistake?" I asked.
"No."
"Then why—"
"You're interesting."
No one had ever described me that way.
"I'm a clumsy waiter."
"You're persistent under pressure. Different."
She took out a black card. No name. No logo. Just a number.
"I have a proposal."
Dangerous word.
"What kind of proposal?"
"A time contract."
"I don't understand."
"You work too much to survive. I purchase human time. We can exchange."
"Exchange what?"
"Your availability. For financial stability."
My brain fully woke up.
"To do what exactly?"
"Accompany me. Presence. Dinners. Events. Structured private moments."
"Assistant?"
"No."
"Then what?"
"Chosen."
The word hung in the air.
"Why me?"
"You don't look at me like a bank."
"I wasn't even sure you tipped."
"Exactly."
"Can I refuse?"
"Yes."
"Consequence?"
"You take the bus."
"If I accept?"
"Your life changes."
The car slowed.
My stop.
"Think about it. I don't buy people. I buy their time. Important distinction."
The door opened.
"Good night, Yvan."
I froze.
"I never gave you my name."
"I own the restaurant."
Of course she did.
I stepped out.
The car left.
I stood under the streetlight with the black card in my hand.
Number engraved. Nothing else.
My phone vibrated.
Unknown message:
"48 hours. After that, the offer expires."
I looked up.
The car was already gone.
Tomorrow: a math test.
And maybe the chance to sell my time to the most powerful woman I had ever met.
I didn't know what was riskier.
Refusing.
Or saying yes.