The Rude Bride-to-Be Who Didn’t Know I Owned the Restaurant
I own one of Portland’s hottest bistros—upscale, farm-to-table, with a two-week waitlist on weekends. And I don’t just sit in some fancy office counting money. No, I’m in the thick of it every night: greeting guests, managing the kitchen, even jumping in to wait tables if someone calls in sick. I built this place from nothing, and I’m proud of it.
Then one night, my brother Mike called with big news.
“Jill, I proposed! I’m bringing my fiancée to town—we’re having dinner at your place so you can meet her!”
I was thrilled. Mike and I are close, and I couldn’t wait to meet the woman he was marrying. I reserved the best table, prepped the staff for VIP treatment, and planned to take the night off to enjoy dinner with them.
But of course, things never go that smoothly.
Our hostess called in sick, so I stepped in to cover while waiting for Mike and his fiancée. He texted that he was running late, but she’d be there on time. No problem—I’d get her settled with wine and appetizers.
Then she walked in.
Tall, blonde, dressed in a fire-engine-red designer dress that clung to her like plastic wrap, with stilettos that click-clacked across the floor like a warning. She stopped at the host stand, scanning the room like she was judging its worth.
I smiled. “Welcome! Name for the reservation?”
She barely looked at me. Instead, her eyes raked over my outfit—black slacks, a crisp blouse, my hair in a sleek bun. Professional. Polished.
Her nose wrinkled like she’d just smelled garbage.
“Wait… you work here?” she sneered. “I mean… no offense, but you’re kind of overdressed for a server. And that hairstyle? It’s a bit much. My fiancé’s about to arrive, and I’d prefer someone… simpler serving us. Can you get the manager?”
My blood boiled.
She thought I was just a waitress. And worse—she thought she could talk to me like I was dirt on her expensive shoes.
I could see my staff watching. Sarah, one of our best servers, shot me a “Did she really just say that?” look from across the room. Marcus, the bartender, froze mid-glass-polish, eyes wide.
But I stayed calm. Oh, I stayed calm.
“Of course,” I said, sweet as poisoned honey. “Let me get the manager for you.”
She smirked, victorious. “Perfect. And maybe someone who looks more… appropriate?”
“Oh, don’t worry,” I said. “You’ll get exactly what you deserve.”
I walked to the back, took a deep breath, and grabbed my business cards. Then I strolled back to her table, card in hand.
“Everything okay here?” I asked, all fake cheer.
She rolled her eyes. “You again? I asked for the manager. Are you slow or just rude?”
I dropped the card in front of her. *”Honey, I *am* the manager. And the owner.”*
Her face went white.
Then—perfect timing—Mike walked in, grinning. “Jill! Sorry I’m late!” He hugged me, kissed my cheek, then turned to his fiancée. “Ashley, this is my sister, the one I’ve been telling you about!”
Ashley looked like she wanted to melt into the floor. “This… this is your sister?”
“Yep,” I said, crossing my arms. “Owner of this place. Every table, every plate, every bottle of wine. Built it myself.”
Mike frowned. “Wait, what’s going on?”
I smiled. “Your fiancée just told me I was too well-dressed to serve you. Said I should change my hair and get someone ‘simpler’ to wait on you.”
Mike’s face darkened. *”Ashley. You *didn’t.“
She stammered, “I—I thought she was just a waitress!”
“And that makes it okay?” I asked. “You thought you could insult someone just because you assumed they worked for you?”
Later, when Mike stepped out to take a call, Ashley cornered me, her voice shaking. “Look, I’m sorry. My ex cheated on me with a waitress. I have… trust issues.”
I nodded. “I get that. But trauma isn’t an excuse to treat people like garbage.”
She swallowed hard. “You’re right. I was awful.”
I accepted her apology—sort of. For Mike’s sake. But let’s just say… she won’t be pulling that stunt again.
And the best part? Mike called me the next day.
“Yeah… we need to talk.”
Turns out, Ashley showed her true colors that night. And my brother? He doesn’t tolerate disrespect—especially not toward his little sister.
Karma’s a dish best served with a side of revenge.
