Max's parents provided him with everything they possibly could: toys, expensive gadgets, designer clothes, a luxury car for his eighteenth birthday, and a private apartment when he turned twenty.
In return, the young man showed great promise in continuing the family legacy. He planned to succeed his father as CEO when the older man decided to retire; for now, he settled for the role of Executive Vice President. Max was a quick study, balancing his corporate duties with a degree in Management and Human Resources. In short, Max did everything expected of him. His parents were proud of their golden boy's success, and Max wasn't exactly humble about it—he often boasted that by twenty-five, he already had everything most people only dream of by forty.
Generally speaking, Max was a decent guy, though excessively overconfident and occasionally arrogant. However, in the business world, this didn't hinder him; if anything, it was an asset. One day, Max headed to a high-end restaurant with one of his father's business partners to finalize some contract details. His father, Robert, had suddenly come down with the flu and decided to stay home, seeing it as a perfect opportunity to test how his son would handle a high-stakes negotiation solo.
Arthur, the business partner, was initially skeptical and even slightly insulted to find himself facing the son instead of Robert. However, after an exquisite dinner and a few glasses of fine wine, his mood shifted.
"Max, you certainly have a talent for smoothing over the rough edges," Arthur chuckled.
"I appreciate the compliment," Max replied with a polished smile. "All that's left is to sign the new agreement, and then we can call it a night."
"Yes, yes, of course. Initially, the terms felt a bit one-sided, but you've managed to highlight the benefits for my firm... I'm satisfied with the contract. My only lingering thought is how much I've enjoyed this vintage. Would you care for one more glass before we finalize our business?" Arthur was no longer in the mood for squabbling over every penny; he was ready to relax.
Max nodded and signaled a waitress, ordering two more glasses. The young woman took their order with a polite smile and headed back to the bar.
The waitress's name was Christina, and at that moment, her only wish was for these two snobs to leave. Her restaurant frequently hosted high-powered executives, but these two were particularly grating. The younger one lacked any semblance of manners, constantly summoning her with a snap of his fingers. Did he think she was a dog? The "master-servant" dynamic he projected rubbed her entirely the wrong way.
"Sam, order up. Two more glasses for the 'Master of the Universe' and his guest," Christina sighed, handing the ticket to the bartender.
"Why do they get under your skin so much? They're just talking shop like every other suit in here," Sam said, uncorking the bottle and pouring the wine.
"It's not just that. This kid acts like he owns the world," Christina grimaced.
"Maybe he does," Sam shrugged. "Your job is simple: deliver the drinks, smile, and walk away."
"I can do that, but I'd love for them to clear out soon," Christina sighed, loading the glasses onto her tray. "I'll bet you anything he doesn't leave a dime for a tip."
She was approaching the table, wearing her professional "customer service" smile, when Max suddenly stood up and turned around abruptly. She couldn't have known that a second earlier, he had told Arthur he needed to call his sick father.
"I missed a call; I better check if everything is alright."
Arthur had nodded understandingly, promising to stay occupied with the wine. At that exact moment, Max's shoulder collided with Christina's elbow. The tray flipped in slow motion. The glasses shattered, and the red wine drenched Max's expensive suit.
"Oh, for God's sake!" Max barked.
Christina went pale. Instinctively, she tried to fix the situation, grabbing a napkin and dabbing at the spreading stains on his shirt and blazer.
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry..." she stammered the practiced apologies.
It didn't matter that the clumsy guest was at fault; the customer was always right.
"This suit costs more than four months of your salary," Max hissed under his breath, careful not to let the greed in his tone reach his partner's ears.
"Please, I'm so sorry..." Christina repeated. "I'm sure management can cover the dry cleaning..."
"Dry cleaning? The suit is ruined," Max said gloomily. "Incredible staff you have here. I'm just lucky you didn't dump hot soup on my head."
"I am truly sorry," Christina said one last time, her voice hollow.
"Get the manager. This is ridiculous." Max brushed her hands away and headed toward the restroom.
What an arrogant jerk! Christina thought, kneeling to pick up the shards of glass.
The guest had jumped up so suddenly he'd practically knocked the tray out of her hands. And now she'd have to endure a lecture from her boss. The day was officially a disaster. Only then did she notice the wine on the floor looked unusually pale, and her hand began to sting. Turning her palm over, she barely suppressed a scream. She had been so shocked by the confrontation that she hadn't noticed a large shard of glass lodged in her palm. Blood was flowing freely from the wound, yet the floor was still a mess.
According to the restaurant's rules, Christina had to clean up the mess caused by her "oversight" before attending to her own problems. She still felt no pain—the sight of the wound had sent her back into a state of shock—so she quickly swept the glass into a dustpan and retreated to the breakroom. Once the glass was gone, she looked at her hand again. It was starting to swell and throb rhythmically. Tears welled in her eyes as she went to find the manager.
"Jenna, there's a guest who wants to see you," Christina said through gritted teeth. "And I need to leave."
"What? Why? There's still hours left in your shi—oh my God!" The manager looked up from her computer and saw the blood dripping from the waitress's hand. "Christina! What happened?"
"I broke some glasses... and the wine..." she sobbed.
"Go, obviously. There's an urgent care clinic just down the block. Do you need me to walk you out?" Jenna asked.
"No, I'll call an Uber. You have a very 'pleasant' conversation waiting for you with the guest I drenched in the process," Christina tried to stay upright, trying not to think about how much the hand hurt now or how the bleeding wouldn't stop.
"I hope the guest doesn't have glass in him?" the manager asked seriously, but Christina just gave a hysterical half-laugh.
"Honestly, I wish he did! He's the one who bumped into me. But no, he's just covered in wine. On a suit that costs 'four months of my salary,' as he put it. Anyway, I'm going. I'll come in tomorrow to hear about how clumsy I am..."
Jenna watched her go. Christina had never had an incident like this before; the guest must be a real piece of work. At the clinic, Christina received nine stitches. They offered her a medical leave note, but she needed the money. It was her right hand, her working hand. She wouldn't be able to take notes in class or carry heavy trays at work. But she'd have to figure it out.
Christina's parents had only been able to give her a starting point in life before her father had a terrible accident at a construction site, leaving him disabled. Every penny her mother earned went toward expensive treatments and physical therapy. Truthfully, her mother's salary wasn't enough. Christina lived frugally to help support her father. She had one more year of college before she could get a job in her field; until then, she had to wait tables and endure people like Max.
While Christina was getting medical help, Jenna approached Max and introduced herself as the manager. By then, Arthur had received a fresh glass of wine, finished it, and praised the evening despite the "little hiccup." Max had insisted on waiting for the waitress to, as he put it, "explain the basics of professionalism." Dinner, of course, was on Max. Arthur shrugged, thanked him for the meal, and left.
"Is there a problem, sir?" Jenna asked.
"Yes, there is. Take a look at my suit," Max said, gesturing to the beige blazer draped over the chair.
The wine stains hadn't faded; dry cleaning would be a long shot. There were splashes on his shirt and trousers, too. Even his light leather shoes were ruined. He looked like he'd been hit by a tidal wave, not a single glass.
"Oh, I am very sorry that happened. The restaurant will, of course, comp your entire meal tonight."
"I expected as much, but there is something else you can do," Max stated arrogantly.
"And what would that be?"
"Isn't it obvious? You need to fire that clumsy girl!" Max snapped. "She's going to ruin someone else's night. Next time, someone might get lucky and have hot soup dumped on them instead."
"We will take the necessary disciplinary actions," Jenna replied reservedly.
"I know what 'actions' means," Max scowled. "You'll probably just withhold a bonus. No, I want her fired. Immediately."
"I believe that decision belongs to the owner of the restaurant," the manager explained patiently.
"Then get me the owner," Max said, crossing his arms.
"I'm afraid that's not possible," Jenna's tone shifted. "First of all, I don't recall us being on a first-name basis, and second, the owner is not on the premises."
"What a joke of an establishment," Max cursed and laughed. "Rudeness, wine baths... has the health department been by lately? Maybe I should arrange a visit."
"We have done everything possible for you, sir. If there is nothing else..." Jenna began, but Max cut her off.
"There is! But you're not listening, just repeating the same script... Oh, excuse me, Ma'am, I forgot we aren't friends. It's clear this place treats its guests like they're the help."
"I'm going to have to ask you to leave our restaurant," Jenna said, her voice like iron.
She knew only the owner usually gave that order, but she had to do something. Other guests were starting to stare and whisper—Max was ruining their evening, and it was time for him to go.
"Excuse me?" Max craned his neck, disbelieving. "So I get drenched, insulted, and now I'm being kicked out?"
"I am sorry your evening was disappointing. We are not charging you for your meal, but you are disturbing the other guests. We have done all we can. We cannot help you further."
"This is an outrage!" Max hissed. "I'll bury this place. You have no idea who you're dealing with. I'll have you closed by morning!"
"That is your right, of course," Jenna agreed, done with the conversation.
"What was that waitress's name? I want her full name and info," Max said, standing up so abruptly he nearly repeated the collision.
It was clear now to the manager how the accident had happened. It looked like he was trying to physically intimidate her.
"I am not authorized to disclose employee records. Her name is Christina," Jenna replied.
"Then bring her out. I want to speak with her personally before I go." Max planned to get her last name, maybe a photo, to ensure she never worked in this city again. Through his connections in the industry, he could blacklist her. She could go work as a cashier for all he cared.
"I can't do that either. Christina left for the emergency room," Jenna said.
"The emergency room?" Max paused. "Why?"
"She badly sliced her hand open while trying to clean up the mess and save your evening," Jenna replied with a touch of spite.
She wanted to sting him, and it worked. Max looked genuinely lost for a moment, though seconds ago he had been ready to burn the place down.
"Oh... well... that's unfortunate," Max rubbed the back of his neck. "Look, I'm sorry I lost my temper. I didn't know she was hurt while I was laying into her. Forget the free meal." He pulled several large bills from his pocket and tossed them on the table. "Tell me which clinic she went to. Just... as one person to another."
"I don't know," Jenna said, taken aback.
She hadn't expected a shred of humanity from him. But Max wasn't purely a villain; he was just spoiled.
"Understood. Look, sorry for the scene. Have a good night." He turned and walked out, leaving the manager standing confused by the table.
Outside, Max climbed into his car. "Hey, Sam, do you know where the nearest urgent care is?"
"No, Mr. Sterling. Is everything okay?"
"You never know anything," Max grumbled, pulling up a map on his phone. "Let's go."
Sam didn't ask questions. If the boss said drive, they drove. As they pulled up to the clinic, Christina was just walking out, her hand heavily bandaged. Max recognized her immediately and hopped out of the car.
"Christina!" he called out.
She turned and saw the guest from the restaurant rushing toward her.
"Oh, great," she muttered, but she stayed put.
Fortunately, they were now on equal ground as citizens. She was more than ready to tell this brat exactly what she thought of him. Max reached her and stared awkwardly, first at her bandage, then at her face. In the restaurant, he hadn't noticed how attractive she was.
"Want to add something else?" Christina asked.
"Um, look, I feel terrible... I had no idea you... that you were hurt while trying to fix that... awkwardness," Max said. Usually, he was never at a loss for words, but Christina wasn't about to let him off easy.
"You're the one who bumped into me. So don't be shy, say it clearly: it was the consequence of your awkwardness."
"I'm sorry if I really was at fault... but aren't waitresses supposed to, I don't know, have fast reflexes?" he asked with a stupid, nervous smile.
"Right, sure. They teach us 'Extreme Maneuvering' right after 'Advanced Tray Balancing' during orientation," Christina snapped sarcastically. "You have a very poor understanding of waitress training. Mainly because it doesn't exist."
"Well..." Max hated admitting fault. His ego was still very much intact. He still secretly believed she should have seen him coming. "Let me make it up to you. How about dinner next week? On me, obviously."
"Oh, no thank you," Christina raised her throbbing hand. "I've had enough of your 'dinner' for a lifetime."
"No, I'm inviting you as my date."
"Who knows, another 'unfortunate accident' might happen," she smirked.
"Fair point," Max smiled.
He liked her fire. She wasn't some pushover; she had a real backbone. She'll probably agree to come over pretty quickly once she realizes who I am. She's a waitress, she's used to looking for an upgrade, he thought. He already had a mental script for how this would go. He was used to getting what he wanted.
"If that's all, I'm going home. Try to watch where you're going from now on," Christina said when he didn't immediately reply.
"Wait," Max said, snapping back to the moment. "If you won't do dinner, how about the theater?"
Christina paused. Max was very handsome, exactly her type physically. His personality was a disaster, but maybe she was being judgmental? She had read enough romance novels where things started like this. Maybe he deserved a chance to not be a jerk.
"Well, it's harder to break things in a theater," she conceded.
"Great. Here's my card. Call me when you're feeling better." Max handed her an embossed business card. He had two goals: give her his number, and subtly flex his wealth. "I'll be waiting."
"I'll let you know," Christina promised, slipping the card into her pocket without even looking at it, which both annoyed and intrigued him. "Anyway, we look ridiculous: a guy in a wine-stained suit and a girl with a mummy hand standing outside a clinic. I'm going home."
"Oh, right!" Max laughed, hitting his forehead. "Can I give you a ride?"
"No. I've had enough of you for one day," she said firmly and walked away.
Two weeks later, she remembered Max when her stitches were being removed. She hadn't told her parents about the incident, but she decided to text him.
I'm officially un-bandaged. When's the theater? - Christina.
After a second of hesitation, she added a laughing emoji so he'd know she was joking about the injury. His reply came seconds later.
Glad you're okay and can joke about it. Theater tonight. Send me your address, I'll pick you up at seven.
So he hadn't forgotten. Christina sent the address and waited. At seven, Max called to say he was outside. Christina made him wait twenty minutes out of principle. When she finally walked out, he showered her with compliments. She was wearing a classic "little black dress" and pumps. Perfect for the theater.
"Wow," she sighed. "You've really got the 'charming' routine down, don't you?"
"Believe me, I didn't even have to try," Max smiled, opening the car door for her.
"Professional habit?" she teased.
"Maybe a little," Max said, driving himself this time. "But your beauty did most of the work."
"So, what is it you actually do?" Christina ignored the flattery and changed the subject.
"Wait... you didn't check? It was on the card," Max said, genuinely surprised.
"No, I didn't. I just grabbed the number and the name," she answered honestly. Max burst out laughing.
"Well, at least I know you're not with me for the money."
"Hey, slow down," Christina was very principled. "If you think I'm—"
"I don't think anything," Max lied (because that was exactly what he thought). "I just want to have a great night with a beautiful woman. Do you even like plays?"
"I wouldn't have said yes if I didn't," she shrugged, looking out the window at the city lights. "I love the arts."
"You know, there's an opening at the gallery next week. Private showing, very exclusive. I can get us in."
"That sounds tempting," Christina smiled.
"Consider it a date."
Over the next month, Max took Christina to museums, galleries, and shows. She was genuinely thrilled; she knew a lot about art and had sophisticated taste. However, things never went past a kiss. Christina skillfully avoided anything further, which was becoming a problem for Max. For Christina, she needed to be sure of her feelings before getting intimate. And that was where the trouble lay.
Something kept holding her back. Every time things started to get serious, she felt a flicker of... not quite revulsion, but a distinct unease. He was a great conversationalist, but she didn't fully trust him. Max, meanwhile, was tired of the "high school" pace. He invited her to a late dinner with the firm intention of ending the night at his penthouse or a luxury hotel.
Toward the end of dinner, as Max steered the conversation toward more "intimate" topics, Christina felt that familiar discomfort.
"You seem tense," he noted.
"I am, a little," she admitted.
"Why don't we head back to my place? I have a jacuzzi, you could really relax..."
Christina sighed heavily. "Look, I just can't," she said with frustration. "I'm not the kind of girl who does that. I love spending time with you, but I'm not ready for that yet."
"And when will you be 'ready'?" Max asked. The tenderness in his voice vanished instantly, replaced by a cold edge.
"I don't know."
"Unbelievable!" Max slammed his glass onto the table. "So, I've spent a month entertaining you, taking you to the best theaters and museums, and all I get is a couple of kisses? Christina, don't you think you're being a bit of a brat?"
"A brat?!" She could barely breathe from the shock.
"Who else? Me?" he shrugged.
"So this whole time, you just wanted to get me into bed, and now you're mad it hasn't happened yet? You're blaming me?"
"Look, Christina, our little 'moonlit strolls' cost a lot of money. It's only natural that I expect something more in return than a peck on the cheek."
Christina burned with shame. Part of her wanted to slap him and walk out, but another part of her was processing the transaction he'd just described. Her parents had raised her to never live off others, but she'd assumed a man taking a woman on a date was just... a date. She had tried to pay for herself early on, but Max had insisted. Now she realized what had been bothering her all along. He was handsome and could be charming, but at his core, Max was petty, arrogant, and transactional.
The behavior she saw in the restaurant wasn't a "bad day." It was who he was.
"What, nothing to say? Look, if you don't think I've spent enough on you yet, I can just pay you afterward," Max said, seeing her silence as a sign she was trapped.
"It's not about the money," she hissed.
"Oh, come on," he laughed. "What's your price? Ten grand? Fifty? A hundred? How much are you worth?"
That was the final straw. All the "romance" was gone. Christina suddenly felt very calm. She saw him for exactly what he was. This wasn't a movie; there was no "happily ever after" with someone like Max.
"If you want to know the price, I'll give it to you," she nodded. "On one condition."
"Name it," Max said, feeling like he'd finally won.
"If you can't pay it, you leave me alone. Forever. No calls, no texts, no showing up at my work. Nothing."
"As long as it's a reasonable price and not, you know, 'all the money in the world,'" he smirked.
"Don't worry. It's a very fair price," Christina smiled.
Max raised an eyebrow. "Fine. I agree. What is it?"
"Love," Christina said simply.
Max sat there, stunned. Love? What kind of nonsense was that? He thought she was smart and would give him a number he could write a check for so he could finally get what he "deserved."
"Well, Max? Can you pay me in love? It's easier than 'all the money in the world,' isn't it? Or is that price too high for you?"
He looked down at the table. He realized then that he couldn't "buy" Christina. She was different. She hadn't even known who he was when she agreed to go to the theater. Suddenly, for the first time in his life, Max felt true shame. He had seen her as a trophy to be won, a line item on a budget.
"That's what I thought," she said, standing up. "Look, you can tell me what I owe you for the 'entertainment' you provided, and I'll pay you back. But stay away from me."
"Wait..." Max said quietly. "I... I'm sorry. I really am. I didn't see you as a person. I only saw your face. I didn't realize who you actually were. You're right, I've been a jerk. I thought you were like everyone else... but you're not."
"It's too late. I can't be with someone who thinks like you," she said firmly.
"I know. I blew it. But you really are incredible. Can we at least be friends?" he asked hopefully.
"Probably not. We live in different worlds, Max. You spend money on status, and I count every penny to help my family. We have nothing to talk about."
"What about art? We connected over that!" he pleaded.
"You promised you wouldn't pursue me," Christina reminded him. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going home. Have a nice life."
She walked away without a single regret. Max sat there, practically biting his nails as he watched her disappear into the night. He would remember that girl—and the lesson she taught him—for the rest of his life.
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