#### The 10,000-Step Nightmare
Charlotte had walked thousands of steps in her life. Shopping sprees, nights out in heels, rushing between airport gates—how hard could it be to hit 10,000 steps in one day?
She was about to find out.
As soon as she accepted the system challenge, reality smacked her in the face.
Her phone buzzed with an email.
"Dear Ms. Evans, we'd like to invite you for a trial shift at Bella's Bistro. Please arrive by 10 AM and be prepared for an 8-hour shift. Looking forward to seeing you!"
A job. A real job.
Charlotte stared at the screen. She had sent out so many applications she'd lost track of them.
Waitressing wasn't exactly her dream career, but rent wasn't going to pay itself.
Besides, walking around for eight hours? It sounded like the perfect way to rack up her steps and complete the challenge.
She had no idea how wrong she was.
---
#### A Brutal Reality Check
Charlotte arrived at Bella's Bistro ten minutes early, dressed in the simple black slacks and white blouse they had requested. The manager, a middle-aged woman named Rita, barely looked at her before tossing her an apron.
"You're shadowing Maria today," Rita said briskly, nodding toward a tall, no-nonsense waitress tying up her dark curls behind the counter. "Watch and learn. Don't screw up."
Charlotte barely had time to nod before Maria grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the kitchen.
"Ever waited tables before?" Maria asked, already loading up a tray with drinks.
"Uh… no. But I learn fast," Charlotte said, trying to sound confident.
Maria snorted. "Good luck."
The first hour was a whirlwind.
The bistro was packed with the lunch rush—businessmen in crisp suits, groups of chatty friends, an older couple leisurely sipping coffee. The kitchen was chaos, with chefs barking orders, plates clattering, and the air thick with the scent of sizzling garlic and butter.
Maria moved like a machine, weaving between tables with effortless grace. Charlotte, on the other hand, felt like a baby deer learning to walk.
She almost knocked over a tray.
She forgot which table ordered the Caesar salad.
She definitely got side-eyed by an impatient customer when she hesitated too long at the espresso machine.
By hour three, her feet ached. By hour four, they burned.
She stole a glance at her phone.
Steps completed: 4,923.
Barely halfway there.
And she still had four more hours of this.
---
#### The Customer from Hell
By hour five, Charlotte was running purely on adrenaline. She was starting to get into a rhythm—taking orders, balancing trays, faking a smile when someone snapped their fingers at her.
Then came Table 9.
A blonde woman in designer sunglasses and a red blazer sat tapping her manicured nails against the table. Beside her, a man in an expensive watch scrolled through his phone without looking up.
"Welcome to Bella's Bistro," Charlotte greeted, recognizing the woman instantly—Victoria Langley! The persistent thorn in her side! But Charlotte forced herself to stay calm, forcing a polite smile. "Can I get you started with something to drink?"
Victoria Langley sighed dramatically, not even glancing at the menu. "I'll have a non-fat, no-foam oat milk latte, extra hot. And make sure it's oat milk, not almond. Last time, someone messed it up, and I have a sensitivity."
"Got it," Charlotte said, scribbling it down. "And for you, sir?"
The man didn't even look up. "Espresso. Double."
Easy enough.
Charlotte rushed back to the counter, repeating the order in her head. She poured the espresso, grabbed the oat milk, steamed it—
"Charlotte!" Maria's urgent whisper made her jump.
She turned just in time to see Rita, the manager, giving her a hard stare.
"Table 9," Rita said in a low voice. "Don't mess it up. That's Victoria Sterling."
Charlotte's stomach dropped. Thanks for the heads-up! She'd recognized Victoria Sterling long before anyone else had.
As in, Victoria Sterling—New York's biggest socialite, media darling, and also... one of her old so-called "friends."
Back when Charlotte had been rich.
Back when she still went to galas, sipped champagne with CEOs, and shopped at designer boutiques like money grew on trees.
Back before her world collapsed.
Charlotte swallowed hard. There was no way Victoria would humiliate her by throwing coffee in her face or something, right?
Taking a steadying breath, she carried the drinks to Table 9, setting them down carefully. "Here you go. A non-fat, no-foam oat milk latte, extra hot, and a double espresso."
Victoria finally looked up.
For a split second, Charlotte saw the flicker of mockery in her icy blue eyes.
Then, Victoria smirked.
"Charlotte?" she said, her voice dripping with amusement. "Wow. I almost didn't recognize you."
Charlotte clenched her jaw. "It's been a while."
Victoria tilted her head, sipping her latte. "Mmm. And now you're a waitress. How cute."
Charlotte forced a polite smile. "Enjoy your drinks."
She turned to leave, but Victoria's voice stopped her.
"Wait," she said, loud enough for nearby tables to hear. "You used to order oat milk lattes all the time, didn't you? Back when you were... well, you know."
Charlotte's grip on her notepad tightened.
"Back when I was what?" she asked, keeping her tone neutral.
Victoria grinned. "Rich."
Silence.
The air shifted. Nearby customers glanced over, sensing the tension.
Charlotte felt heat rise to her face, but she refused to let Victoria get to her.
She smiled.
"I still like oat milk," she said simply. "Enjoy your lunch, Victoria."
Then, without waiting for a response, she turned and walked away.
Her heart pounded.
Her steps felt heavy.
But she kept walking.
And just like that, the past she'd tried to escape had finally caught up with her.
Charlotte didn't let herself look back at Table 9, but her body remained stiff, shoulders squared, bracing for whatever Victoria might do next.
A snide remark? A cruel laugh? Maybe she'd "accidentally" spill coffee on Charlotte just for fun, like she had done to a girl in high school who wore last season's Prada.
But nothing happened.
Ten minutes later, Charlotte caught a glimpse of Victoria slipping on her sunglasses, her glossy blonde hair falling over one shoulder as she stood up. She said something to her date—probably something vapid and meaningless—then, without so much as a glance back, she strutted out of the bistro, heels clicking against the floor.
Just like that.
Gone.
Charlotte let out a slow breath, feeling her muscles unclench.
That was it? No scene? No sabotage?
She had expected something more. Victoria wasn't the type to waste a perfectly good opportunity to publicly humiliate someone, especially an ex-socialite turned minimum wage worker.
For a second, Charlotte almost laughed at herself. God, you're paranoid.
Charlotte shook her head, forcing the thought away. She didn't have the luxury of worrying about Victoria . Because Bella's Bistro was hell on Earth.
The bistro didn't stop.
Customers came in waves, and the orders never ended. Every time Charlotte thought she might get a second to breathe, another table flagged her down.
More coffee. Extra napkins. A side of ranch. No, not that much ranch. Could she bring out the check? Could she split the bill three ways?
Her legs ached. Her lower back screamed.
The 10,000-step challenge had felt like a fun idea this morning. Now, it felt like a death sentence.
By hour six, she was starving.
By hour seven, she was running on fumes.
By hour eight, she wasn't sure if she was walking or just floating in a haze of exhaustion.
She had never felt this kind of tired before. Not the lazy, stayed-up-too-late kind. This was the deep, soul-crushing fatigue of physical labor, the kind she had never understood until now.
For a girl who had grown up in penthouses and private cars, this was a harsh reality check.
And then, right when she thought she couldn't take another step—
Her phone buzzed.
Charlotte barely registered it at first, but the name on the screen snapped her back to reality.
James.
Her breath hitched.
Her fingers hovered over the screen. Ignore it. Let it go to voicemail.
But something in her gut told her that would be a mistake.
With a sigh, she ducked into the back hallway and answered.
"What?" she muttered, rubbing her temple.
The response was instant rage.
"What the hell are you doing?!" James' voice practically exploded in her ear.
Charlotte winced, pulling the phone away from her ear. "Jesus, James—"
"Mom is losing her mind! She's been trying to reach you for hours, and now I find out you're working in some random restaurant? What is this—some kind of joke?"
"I told Mom I needed space," she muttered. "And it's not a joke. I need a job...Wait a minute! How did you know I was working at a restaurant? No, I know it—it must be Victoria!"
Charlotte yanked her phone away from her ear and frantically tapped open Instagram.
There it was.
A freshly posted story from Victoria Sterling, the queen of perfectly curated social media.
A sleek, artfully filtered shot of a non-fat, no-foam oat milk latte sitting on a pristine white table. The caption? It hits different when the service is… interesting.
Charlotte's pulse pounded.
Because in the background of the photo, slightly out of focus but still painfully recognizable, was her.
Sweaty. Exhausted. Hair frizzy from a full day of running around.
And, most importantly, looking bigger than ever thanks to the horrible angle.