The dim lighting of the upscale lounge cast a warm, amber glow over the polished mahogany bar, reflecting the subtle clinking of glasses and murmurs of low conversations. Mirabel, her freshly pressed white shirt tucked into a sleek black apron, stood behind the bar. Her long dark hair, tied back in a neat ponytail, revealed a sharp jawline and high cheekbones. Her dark brown eyes, usually soft and reserved, were now narrowing in agitation as she wiped down a glass, her fingers moving with a kind of focused precision. She wasn't new to difficult customers, but this man… this "Chief," as they called him, was beginning to test her patience.
Chief sat across from her, lounging in his seat with a posture that screamed authority and entitlement. His dark, tailored suit looked almost too expensive for the setting, as if he belonged in a boardroom or a mansion rather than a simple lounge. He exuded wealth, from the glint of his gold cufflinks to the polished shine of his leather shoes. His face, sharp and angular, was clean-shaven, and his eyes held a cold, calculating glint. His expression was unreadable, except for the faintest curl of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.
"What is your name?" His voice, smooth yet commanding, sliced through the quiet hum of the room, catching Mirabel off guard. It was less of a question and more of an expectation, as if her name was something he was entitled to know.
Mirabel blinked, momentarily stunned by the demand. Her brows furrowed, and she tightened her grip on the glass, placing it down slowly as she turned to face him fully. "Why on earth would you choose to ask me that?" she countered, her tone incredulous. Her body tensed, though she remained composed, shoulders square and eyes unwavering.
Chief's eyes didn't waver either. He leaned back slightly, his arms resting on the polished wood of the bar, fingers lazily tapping in rhythm. "Yes, yes I did," he replied, his voice tinged with amusement. "Is it such a hard question to answer?"
His words were sharp, slicing through the air like daggers, yet his expression remained as cold and detached as ever. He watched her with an intensity that made it clear he wasn't used to being denied even the smallest of requests. He leaned forward ever so slightly, narrowing his eyes. "I won't tell you," she snapped back, her voice firm, her gaze locking with his, daring him to push further.
A flicker of amusement danced in his eyes. 'If a common bartender can't tell me her name, then she must think she's better than she looks,' he mused internally, though his face gave nothing away. His smirk faded, and his expression became a mask of cold indifference. "Fine by me," he muttered, his voice laced with subtle mockery. "You can just get me my regular."
Mirabel crossed her arms over her chest, her irritation barely concealed. "Your regular? I haven't attended to you before," she replied, her voice tight with frustration. "Besides, it's my first time attending to a customer here."
Her voice cracked, just for a moment, betraying the rising tide of irritation inside her, and it was enough to make Chief chuckle, a deep sound that echoed through the quiet room. He leaned closer, his voice lowering as if sharing a private joke. "Oh, you don't know my regular? And it's your first time?" His lips twitched into a smile. "I thought you knew your way around here since you're so proud and arrogant."
Mirabel's eyes narrowed, her jaw clenching. She straightened her posture, her stance growing more rigid as her frustration reached a boiling point. "The fact that I'm new here," she said slowly, emphasizing each word, "doesn't mean I should be out here dishing out my name like it's Jollof rice. Just because you want to place an order doesn't mean you get everything you want."
Her voice was steady, but there was fire behind her words, a defiance that Chief hadn't expected. She leaned on the bar slightly, meeting his eyes head-on. "If you're so eager to know my name, why not wait until I've earned my tag? Then you can see it anytime, Mr..."
Chief raised an eyebrow, amused by her nerve. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest, his eyes still locked on hers. A slow smile spread across his face, revealing perfect white teeth. "I see," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You must be really proud of yourself. You're just lucky I signed a huge contract worth millions of naira today, or else I'd have called for your manager. Silly girl."
Mirabel bit back the sharp retort on her tongue, reminding herself to stay professional. Her expression hardened, but she didn't give him the satisfaction of reacting further. Instead, she raised an eyebrow, her voice calm yet firm. "Mr., may I get your order properly?"
Chief's eyes flashed with irritation at her indifference. He leaned forward again, his fingers tapping impatiently on the bar. "French toast and chicken nuggets. For wine, I'll do Four Cousins."
Mirabel jotted down the order quickly, her pen scratching against the brown docket paper. "On it," she said curtly, tearing the slip from her pad. "Your order will be ready in twenty minutes."
Without another word, she spun on her heel, her movements sharp and precise as she walked to the counter. Her footsteps were firm, echoing through the lounge, and she handed the order to a colleague with a nod.
Chief watched her walk away, his eyes narrowing as a swirl of emotions coursed through him—anger, amusement, and something else he couldn't quite place. The audacity of this bartender, this random girl who dared to deny him something as simple as her name, gnawed at him. No girl had ever turned him down before, not to talk of refusing to tell him her name.
He leaned back in his chair, his hands clenching the armrests. 'She's just a proud, broke brat,' he thought bitterly, his jaw tightening. 'I could buy her and her entire family if I wanted to. This bartender has no idea who she's dealing with. She'll learn soon enough.'