🌟 Editor's Note

Please be advised this content is for mature audiences. Regina Young and “Young Realty” are figments of the authors imagination. This is a Human-AI Hybrid Creation. Stay Creative :)

💋 Don’t Forget the Tip

By Regina Young

Regina Young was not born into marble foyers or silver spoons. She was born into noise — where your body clocked out long before your shift ended. She learned early that Life is Theater: men in suits weren’t smarter, they just wore better costumes; women in pearls weren’t happier, they just staged their lives like sets.

And illusion? Illusion was her native tongue

Regina was born an actor. No stage, no script.

Serving was another role, the restaurant a stage, the tray a mere prop, the tips her applause. Every night was rehearsal. Every guest a scene partner. Every shift, another act in the long play of building her empire. Every guest taught her seduction. Every tip, the psychology of money — what loosens a wallet, what stiffens a hand, what makes a man give more than he planned. It was alchemy. It was where she tested her lines, her timing, her smile, her ability to change a room with her presence.

And when she was clocked in, the floor bent to her.

Regina Young was not “just a waitress.” She was a woman building a kingdom in secret, one bill, one glance, one surrendered tip at a time.

And when the House is finished, no one will ever forget who built it.

The men at the corner booth froze when she set down their martinis. Her wrist lingered, her nail brushing the edge of a hand just long enough to leave him unsteady. Her skin, smooth as silk sporting a a simple golden bracelet engraved with an R.

Client:
“Dangerous.”

She smiled without looking at him — the kind of smile that evaporates before you know if it was real.

At the long table of businessmen, she poured wine like a ceremony. The bottle tilted slow, crimson threading into crystal. One of them leaned forward, watching her wrist, his tie hanging loose like surrender.

Regina: “A steady hand is the first secret.”

He laughed too loudly. She had already moved on.

Oysters, whiskey, espresso martinis. She carried them all with a body that ached but never revealed it. To them, she was radiant, tireless. Each step a performance, each plate an offering, each smile another line delivered with perfect timing.

And when the checks arrived, wallets opened like mouths. Bills folded, slipped into sleeves. Not one man remembered the food. They’d consumed her instead — the illusion, the presence, the art of her labor disguised as pleasure.

Regina never asked. She didn’t need to. She exuded. She moved through the room like smoke, and the tips appeared, inevitable, as if drawn to her by gravity.

Only paper was worthy of the performance.

At the last table, she set down a slice of cake. The man stared at the fork, then at her. His hand moved to his wallet before hers ever touched the tray.

She gave him a smile — small, wicked, knowing — and drifted away.

The dining room roared back to life behind her, but none of them would forget her. They never did.

Don’t forget the tip. Regina never does…

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