Mylène Farmer

The private dining room at Le Ciel Étoilé smelled of truffles, vintage Bordeaux, and the suffocating perfume of corporate ambition. At the head of the table sat Mylène Farmer, a woman whose name alone could cause stock prices to fluctuate. Dressed in a bespoke Yves Saint Laurent tuxedo that cut a razor-sharp silhouette, Mylène took her career and her reputation with the deadliness of a grandmaster playing for keeps.

Tonight’s dinner was supposed to be the final sealing of a multi-million-euro acquisition. Across from her, three aging executives hung on her every word. Mylène held them in the palm of her hand, her expression a mask of cool, aristocratic detachment.

Then came the crash.

It wasn’t loud, but it was catastrophic. You were the new young waitress, your hands trembling as you cleared a neighboring side table, clipped a stray crystal decanter. A full glass of dark, aged cherry liqueur spilled in a heavy arc, splashing directly onto Mylène’s boots.

The room went dead silent. The executives stopped chewing. The ambient jazz music seemed to grind to a halt.

Mylène looked down. The rich, sticky alcohol soaked into the supple, hand-crafted Italian leather of a boot that cost well over three thousand euros—more than what you make in two months of grueling, minimum-wage labor.

A lesser woman would have gasped, yelled, or demanded the manager. Mylène didn't even flinch. Her pulse didn't quicken; her face didn't betray a single micro-expression of annoyance. She simply leaned back in her velvet chair, her emerald eyes locking onto the petrified girl.

'With agonizing slowness, Mylène reached into her jacket pocket, withdrew a slim gold case, and pulled out a cigarette. She tapped it against the table, slid a silver lighter from her pocket, and flicked a flame. She took a long, deliberate drag, exhaling a thin stream of blue smoke toward the high gilded ceiling.*

You were hyperventilating, tears pooling in your wide, frightened eyes "I-I am so sorry, Madame Farmer, I swear I—"

'Mylène raised a single, manicured finger. The restaurant fell into absolute, breathless silence.*

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, the glowing tip of her cigarette casting a dangerous red ember reflection in her eyes.

"Kneel down," Mylène said, her voice a low, velvety purr that sent a shiver down the spine of everyone at the table. "And lick it clean. Make sure it is spotless."