The Rude Bride-to-Be Who Didn’t Know I Owned the Restaurant
I own one of Portland’s hottest bistros—a sleek, farm-to-table spot where reservations book out weeks in advance. The kind of place where regulars hug me when they walk in, where the food is so good people beg for seconds, and where I work harder than anyone else.
Because this place? It’s mine.
I built it from nothing. Five years of sweat, sleepless nights, and every penny I had went into making this restaurant what it is today. And now? Now I get to enjoy it.
Some nights, I’m the one greeting guests at the door. Other nights, I’m in the kitchen, plating dishes when we’re slammed. And if a server calls in sick? You bet I’ll pick up a tray and take orders myself. No job is beneath me—because I love what I do.
So when my brother Mike called to say he was bringing his fiancée to dinner at my place, I was thrilled.
Mike and I have always been close, but he’d been weirdly secretive about his girlfriend. All I knew was that she was “stylish, confident, and amazing.”
Great, I thought. Can’t wait to meet her.
I reserved the best table in the house, prepped the staff for VIP treatment, and planned to take the night off to enjoy dinner with them.
But of course, life had other plans.
Our hostess called in sick, so I stepped in to cover. No big deal—I’d just greet guests until Mike and his fiancée arrived.
Except they didn’t arrive together.
Mike texted: “Running late—work call. Ashley will be there at 6:30.”
Fine. I’d welcome her, get her settled with a glass of wine, and wait for Mike.
At exactly 6:40, she walked in.
Tall. Blonde. Dressed in a skintight red designer dress that looked like it cost more than my first month’s rent. Her stilettos click-clacked on the hardwood as she scanned the room like she was judging it.
I put on my best hostess smile. “Welcome! Name for the reservation?”
She barely glanced at me. Instead, her eyes raked over my outfit—black slacks, a crisp blouse, my hair in a sleek high bun. Professional. Polished.
Her nose wrinkled like she’d just stepped in something gross.
“Wait… you work here?” she said, giving me a slow up-and-down. “No offense, but you’re a little overdressed for restaurant staff, don’t you think? And that hair? It’s… a lot.”
I blinked. Did she just—?
She sighed dramatically. “Look, my fiancé’s about to get here, and I’d really prefer someone… simpler serving us. Can you get the manager? Or, like, a different waitress? Someone less… distracting?”
My blood boiled.
Ohhh, so she thought I was just a waitress. Not that there’s anything wrong with that—I’ve done every job in this place. But the way she said it? Like I was some kind of threat?
I could feel my staff watching. Sarah, one of my servers, shot me a “Did she really just say that?” look from across the room. Marcus, the bartender, froze mid-glass-polish, eyebrows raised.
But I stayed calm.
Years in this business have taught me one thing: The best way to deal with rude people? Let them dig their own grave.
So I smiled sweetly. “Of course! Let me get the manager for you.”
She smirked, clearly pleased with herself. “Perfect. And maybe someone who looks more… appropriate for the job?”
I kept my voice sugary. “Absolutely. I’ll make sure you get exactly what you deserve.”
Then I walked to the back office, took a deep breath, and grabbed my business cards.
This was going to be fun.
I strolled back to her table, card in hand. “Just checking in—everything okay here?”
She glared. “You again? I asked for the manager.”
I slid my business card across the table. “Oh, sweetie… I am the manager. Also, the owner.”
Her face went white.
She picked up the card with shaky fingers, reading it over and over like the words might change. “This… this can’t be right.”
And then—perfect timing—Mike walked in.
“There’s my sister!” he cheered, pulling me into a bear hug. “Sorry I’m late—work call ran long. You know how it is.”
Ashley looked like she’d just been slapped.
“Sister?!” she choked out.
Mike grinned. “Yep! Jill’s my baby sister—though she hates when I call her that.” He turned to me. “Jill, this is Ashley, my fiancée.”
Ashley’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. “You… you own this place?”
I crossed my arms. “Every. Single. Inch.”
Mike’s smile faded as he glanced between us. “Uh… what’s going on?”
I tilted my head. “Your fiancée just told me I was too overdressed to serve you and asked for someone ‘simpler.’ Apparently, my hair was ‘a lot.’”
Mike’s face darkened. “Ashley.“
She panicked. “Mike, I didn’t know she was your sister! I thought—”
“That makes it worse,” he snapped. “You seriously just insulted a stranger because of how she looks?”
Ashley shrank in her seat.
Later, when Mike stepped away to take a call, she cornered me, her voice shaking.
“Look, I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “My ex cheated on me with a waitress. I have… trust issues.”
I nodded slowly. “I get that. But trauma doesn’t give you the right to treat people like garbage.”
She swallowed hard. “You’re right. I was awful.”
I accepted her apology—sort of.
But let’s just say… she spent the rest of dinner very politely complimenting the food.
And Mike? He spent the whole night glaring at her like he was rethinking everything.
Karma’s a dish best served… at my restaurant.