When a Fake VIP Met Her Match And Got A Serving Of Humble Pie

Just Another Saturday Night

My name is Megan, and I work as a shift supervisor at a cozy little bistro tucked in the heart of downtown.

It's Saturday night, and our dining room is humming with the familiar weekend energy I've grown to love.

The soft amber lighting catches on wine glasses, the kitchen sends out wafts of garlic and fresh herbs, and our regular couple in the corner booth—the Hendersons—are sharing their usual tiramisu.

I've been here three years now, and I can practically choreograph the rhythm of these busy nights: tourists studying their maps while sipping our house red, nervous first dates with their awkward pauses, and locals who greet me by name.

Tonight feels like any other Saturday—servers weaving between tables, the gentle clink of silverware, and me, clipboard in hand, checking that everything runs smoothly.

I'm just finishing comp drinks for a table that waited too long when I notice her at the entrance. A woman in oversized sunglasses (at night, really?

) and designer heels that probably cost more than my monthly rent. She's scanning the room like she owns it, and something in my gut tells me this isn't going to be just another Saturday night after all.

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The Grand Entrance

I'm still at the host stand when the bistro door flies open with such force that the little welcome bell nearly detaches from its hook.

In struts this woman—designer everything, from her oversized Gucci sunglasses (at 8 PM, mind you) to those red-bottomed heels clicking against our hardwood floors like she's announcing her own arrival.

Before our hostess Jen can even say 'Welcome,' this woman—Delilah, as she'll later introduce herself—literally waves her manicured hand in front of the elderly couple who've been patiently waiting.

'I'll need the best table in the house,' she announces, loud enough that half the dining room turns to look. 'The owner and I go way back.

' Her voice has that fake-sweet quality that makes my teeth hurt. 'He always tells me to drop in anytime,' she adds with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

I watch Jen's face cycle through confusion, panic, and then forced hospitality. Our staff exchange glances—we've seen this type before.

The 'I-know-the-owner' card gets played at least once a week, but something about this woman's confidence makes my stomach knot.

Jen, bless her heart, leads Delilah to our corner booth usually reserved for special occasions, while I mentally prepare for whatever hurricane this woman is about to unleash on our peaceful Saturday night.

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The Name Drop

Delilah settles into our corner booth like she's claiming territory, immediately pulling out her phone and snapping her fingers for water.

'I'm Delilah,' she announces to anyone within earshot, not even looking up from her screen. 'Marcus and I go way back.

He always tells me to drop in any time.' The name-drop hangs in the air like cheap perfume. I catch Zoe's eye across the room, her raised eyebrow saying everything words can't.

We get these types at least once a month—people claiming to be the owner's best friend, college roommate, or distant cousin.

But something about Delilah's absolute confidence makes me uneasy. She's not just hoping we believe her; she's expecting it.

The dining room has quieted slightly, other guests stealing glances at this woman who's acting like royalty in our humble bistro.

Delilah adjusts her sunglasses (still on, indoors, at night) and scans the menu with a dismissive flick of her wrist.

'I assume Marcus still makes that special risotto? It's not on the menu, but he'll want me to have it.

' I bite my lip, wondering how to handle this situation, when I notice something that makes my heart skip—the small security camera in the corner blinking red.

The one that feeds directly to the owner's phone. And wouldn't you know it, my own phone buzzes in my apron pocket.

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Staff Whispers

I quickly gather our servers by the kitchen entrance, keeping my voice low. 'Okay team, we've got a situation at table nine.

' Everyone huddles closer as I explain. 'This woman—Delilah—claims she knows Marcus personally.' Carlos, our longest-serving waiter, rolls his eyes.

'That's the third one this month.' Jen twists her apron nervously. 'She seems... different though. More demanding.

' I nod, scanning the dining room where Delilah sits scrolling through her phone, occasionally glancing up to see if we're watching her.

'Look, I've been here three years and never seen her before, but let's just handle this professionally.

Give her good service, but don't bend over backward with special treatment.' The staff exchanges knowing glances—we've developed a silent language for these situations.

'What if she really does know him?' whispers Zoe, our newest server assigned to Delilah's table. I squeeze her shoulder reassuringly.

'Then Marcus would have mentioned her before one of his friends visited. Just stick to the menu, no special off-menu items she might request.

' As our impromptu meeting breaks, I notice Delilah impatiently waving for service, sunglasses still perched on her nose despite the dim lighting.

What I didn't expect was the text that suddenly lit up my phone screen: 'On my way. Don't tell her. -Marcus'

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