Tales of a Sugar Daddy

Chapter 3 The Lamplighter

The Lamplighter smelled the same as it always did—roasted garlic, seared meat, the lingering sweetness of fresh bread pulled from the ovens. The low hum of conversation mixed with the clatter of plates and the rhythmic pop of bottles being uncorked behind the bar.

Caspian Frost had worked here for nearly a year, long enough to know the rhythm of the place. The way the air shifted just before the dinner rush, the unspoken cues between the kitchen staff and the servers, the way regulars barely needed menus anymore.

But the job wasn’t about belonging. It was about staying tethered to something real.

He didn’t need this. Not the paycheck, not the hours spent weaving between crowded tables, not the occasional clash with impatient customers. He had more money than he would ever spend. He had women who would do anything to keep him entertained, who saw him as something larger than life.

But this? This was normal. And some days, he needed normal.

Caspian adjusted his sleeves, rolling them up just enough to expose the veins in his forearms, a subtle glimpse of power beneath the practiced ease of a man who spent his nights indulging in a much different world. He picked up the first set of menus from the bar just as Mariah, the head bartender, gave him a knowing smirk.

“You’re early,” she mused, wiping down the counter. "What happened? Run out of people to dissect?”

Caspian smirked. “You wound me, Mariah.”

“I’m sure you’ll survive.” She tossed the towel over her shoulder, arranging the whiskey bottles.

Caspian gave a small nod, glancing over the reservation list near the host stand. Michelle, the young waitress who had been working here just a few months, bounced over with a grin. “Hey, Cas! Think we’ll make it through tonight without Brad bailing on us?”

Caspian didn’t even have to look toward the kitchen to know Brad, the seasonal waiter, was already missing. He sighed. “You’re being optimistic.”

Michelle groaned. “If I have to cover his tables again, I’m quitting.”

“No, you’re not,” Mariah said from behind the bar.

Michelle rolled her eyes, but she smiled, grabbing a notepad and tucking it into her apron.

This was routine. The same conversations, the same complaints, the same rhythm that Caspian had slipped into so easily over the past year. Then Laura walked in. And something changed. She was always here, always overseeing things, but tonight, there was something different about her presence.

Laura Bell was a woman who carried herself with quiet command, never the type to demand attention—but she had it now.

The usual pre-shift chatter faded when she walked to the center of the dining room, her expression calm but unreadable. The staff, one by one, began to gather around her. Caspian didn’t move immediately. He watched.

Laura exhaled, clasping her hands in front of her, scanning the room before speaking.

“We’re about to open for the night,” she started, her voice steady. “I know this is just another shift for most of you. But tonight is different.”

A pause. Caspian’s gaze sharpened. Laura had never done this before—never addressed the entire staff like this. She usually just gave them instructions and that was that. She took a slow breath. “A year ago today, my husband passed away.”

Silence settled over the room, thick and tangible. Some of the staff exchanged glances, but no one spoke. Laura lifted her chin slightly, her posture strong despite the weight in her voice. “I never talked about it much. And I won’t take up your time with stories about him tonight. But you all know this place was his dream.”

A quiet murmur of acknowledgment rippled through the small crowd.

Laura’s gaze swept over them, lingering for only a second longer when it met Caspian’s. “I just want you all to know that tonight, when we serve our guests, we do it for him. For everything he built. Everything he loved.”

Another beat of silence. Then, softer:

“I want us to honor him.”

Laura squared her shoulders, her usual steel returning to her expression. “That’s all. Let’s have a good night.”

The staff dispersed, conversations picking up again, but the energy in the room had shifted. Caspian watched as Laura turned and walked back toward the kitchen, her mask slipping for only a second—a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes.

And for the first time since he started working here, he felt something he hadn’t expected. A reason to pay attention.

It wasn’t something that most people would have noticed, but Caspian had spent years studying the subtle shifts in human behavior. Laura’s words had done something to the staff.

The usual pre-shift banter had dimmed. There was a sharper focus in the way the waitstaff moved, in the way the kitchen clattered to life. Orders were called out with more urgency, dishes plated with more precision.

Caspian slipped into his role with practiced ease, balancing the fast-paced restaurant rhythm. Orders were taken, plates were delivered, and drinks refilled—all routine and predictable. That was why he liked it here.

It was grounding. It didn’t require the same level of control he maintained elsewhere. There were no contracts, no expectations beyond service. He wasn’t Dr. Caspian Frost, retired surgeon, or the sugar daddy women whispered about in private circles. Here, he was just another waiter. Nothing more. Nothing less.

By the time the last guests left, the energy of the restaurant had dimmed. Staff wiped down tables, Mariah locked up the bar, and Laura settled near the host stand, counting receipts.

Caspian finished stacking chairs, rolling his sleeves back down as he watched the others chat about their post-shift plans.

This life—the noise, the steady movement, the disconnection—was something he had built for himself.

And for now, it was enough. With a nod to Mariah, he grabbed his coat and headed out the door. Another night done. Tomorrow, he would do it all again.