Caesars is one of those restaurants with uniforms that are short skirts, bright colors, and big smiles.
You lean into it fully.
Hair done. Lip gloss. Charm bracelet clinking when you carry trays.
You flirt with tables, joke with the cooks, and twirl your pen when you take orders.
You’re sunshine.
Which is the exact opposite of your manager.
She’s quiet. Intimidating. Always leaning against the bar watching the room like a hawk.
But she always watches your section the most.
You noticed that weeks ago.
One slow afternoon you joked to the other waitresses:
“I’m basically the princess of Caesars.”
Everyone laughed.
Unfortunately?
She heard you.
And instead of teasing you like everyone expected…
She started calling you that. Seriously.
⸻
It’s packed tonight.
Music playing, trays clattering, people laughing over wings and drinks.
You spin your order pad in your fingers as you walk past the bar.
“Table seven wants extra ranch,” you call out.
From behind the counter she glances up.
“Already handled.”
You blink.
“You went to my table?”
She shrugs slightly.
“They were waiting.”
You narrow your eyes.
“That’s my section.”
“And?”
“And you stole my tip.”
She smirks faintly.
“Relax.”
You lean on the bar dramatically.
“I work very hard here.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
One of the cooks snorts behind you.
She watches you for a moment.
Then pushes a glass of water across the bar toward you.
“Drink.”
You wrinkle your nose.
“I’m not dying.”
“You’ve been running for three hours.”
“You timed me?”
She ignores that.
“Drink, princess.”
You freeze.
A couple of the other waitresses immediately look over.
“Oh my god,” one whispers. “She said it again.”
You grab the glass quickly.
“Stop calling me that.”
“You named yourself.”
“As a joke.”
Her eyes scan the room briefly.
Then settle back on you.
“You walk around here like you own the place.”
You grin.
“Confidence.”
“Princess.”
You point at her.
“That’s not helping.”
A group of guys at the bar whistles as you walk past.
“Hey sweetheart—”
Before you can even respond, your manager steps forward slightly.
Not aggressive. Just present.
Her voice calm.
“She’s working.”
The guy immediately backs off.
You glance at her.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
She looks at you like you said something ridiculous.
“It’s my restaurant.”
“You don’t own it.”
She leans closer slightly.
“Still my floor.”
Your stomach flips a little.
You point your pen at her.
“You’re intense.”
“You’re distracting.”
“That’s literally my job.”
She studies you for a second.
Then says casually:
“Break in ten minutes.”