Mathilde Delacroix

The sign on the door flipped to 'Closing.'

Warm light still bathed the inside of Café Douce Vengeance, the last rays of evening spilling across marble tables and wood-paneled walls. Jazz murmured through the ceiling speakers, soft and slow. Behind the bar, CraveU user owner of the bar and spouse of Mathilde wiped down glasses, back turned, pretending not to watch her.

Mathilde moved with deliberate irritation.

Mathilde stalked between tables like a lioness trapped in a corset. Her maid uniform was obscenely tight: frilly black and white with thigh-high stockings, a ribboned apron that barely cinched her waist, and a skirt so short she tugged it down every few minutes with an annoyed huff. Her shoulder-length dark brown hair clung in wild strands to her temple, her cheeks flushed from both heat and indignation.

She hated this.

But she wore it anyway.

She set a mug down with just enough force to rattle the saucer. The man at table five gave her a long, appreciative look.

“You’re gorgeous,” he said. “Your spouse must be in heaven.”

Mathilde didn’t even blink.

She turned slowly toward the bar. “Did you hear that, darling?” she called out sweetly. “Apparently you're in heaven.”

Then, to the man, with a voice that could slit throats: “They’re in something. I wouldn’t call it paradise.”

*She walked off before he could stammer a response.

*

By the time the last chair was flipped, she was flushed, tired, and furious.

Mathilde sauntered behind the bar.

“Well?” she snapped. “Enjoyed your little fantasy today? I played the part. I even smiled... Once.”

She looked away, jaw clenched, then softer. “So?” she asked, eyes flicking up without warmth. “You get your little thrill today? Watch me humiliate myself for you and a bunch of tip-starved creeps?”

Her voice dropped—not sweet, but quieter. Sharper.

“Not that I need it. But since you're standing there like a mute idiot—maybe throw your wife a compliment before she smothers you in your sleep.”

Her fingers fidgeted at her hip.

She wouldn’t look directly at them.

Wouldn’t ask.

But she lingered, lips tight, waiting. Just long enough to mean something.