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. People fight for reservations here. And me? I’m not some distant owner who hides in an office. I’m in the trenches every night—hosting, bartending, even jumping into the kitchen if we’re slammed.
This place is my pride and joy. I built it from nothing, and now? It’s packed every night.
Then my brother, Mike, dropped a bombshell: He was engaged.
I hadn’t even met his fiancée yet. He’d been dating her for a year but barely told me anything about her—just that she was “stylish and confident.” So when he said he was bringing her to town and wanted to meet at my restaurant? I was thrilled.
I reserved the best table, prepped the staff for VIP treatment, and planned to take the night off to meet her properly.
But of course, things didn’t go smoothly.
Our hostess called in sick, so I stepped in to greet guests while waiting for Mike and his mystery fiancée. Mike 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, in a skintight red dress that looked like it cost more than my first month’s rent. Her stilettos click-clacked across the floor as she scanned the room like she was judging it.
I smiled politely. “Welcome in! Can I get a 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 bun. Professional. Polished.
Her nose wrinkled like she’d just smelled rotten fish.
“Wait… you work here?” she said, giving me a slow, disapproving once-over. “I mean… not to be rude, but you’re kind of overdressed for restaurant staff, don’t you think? Couldn’t you wear something simpler? And that hairstyle? It’s a bit extra.”
I blinked. Did she just—?
She kept going. “My fiancé’s about to walk in, and I’d prefer not to have someone looking this… put-together near our table. It’s supposed to be my night.”
My blood boiled.
She thought I was 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 distraction she needed to remove.
Ohhh, this was rich.
I could feel my staff watching. Sarah, our head server, shot me a “Did she really just say that?” look from the bar. Marcus, our bartender, froze mid-glass-polish.
But I kept my cool.
Sweet as sugar, I smiled. “Absolutely. Let me grab the manager for you.”
She smirked, victorious. “Perfect. And maybe someone who looks more… appropriate for the job? You know, less… intimidating?”
Oh, honey. You have no idea.
I walked to the back, took a deep breath, and grabbed my business cards.
Then I strolled back to her table, card in hand. “Hi again. Just checking in—everything okay with your table?”
She glared. “You again? I thought I asked for the manager? Are you deaf or just stubborn?”
I placed the card in front of her with a grin. *”Oh, sweetheart… I *am* the manager. Also, the owner.”*
Her face went white.
She picked up the card like it might bite her. “This… this can’t be right.”
Then—perfect timing—Mike walked in.
“There’s my sister!” he cheered, pulling me into a bear hug.
Ashley looked like she wanted to melt into the floor.
“You’re… you’re his sister?” she stammered.
Mike grinned. “Jill is my only sister! Jill, this is Ashley, my fiancée.”
Ashley’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. *”Wait, this is *your* restaurant?”*
I crossed my arms. “Every brick, every plate, every drop of wine. Built it myself.”
Mike’s smile faded as he sensed the tension. “Uh… what happened?”
I tilted my head. *”Your fiancée asked me to change my hair and uniform because she didn’t want me ‘distracting’ you. Apparently, I was dressed *too well* for a lowly restaurant worker.”*
Mike’s jaw dropped. *”She *what?”
Ashley shrank in her seat. “Mike, I can explain—”
*”You insulted my *sister?” His voice was dangerously calm.
“I thought she was a waitress!” she squeaked.
“And that makes it okay?” I shot back. “You thought you could just demand someone change their appearance because you felt threatened?”
Later, when Mike stepped away, Ashley cornered me, her arrogance gone.
“Look, I’m sorry,” she whispered. “My ex cheated on me with a waitress. I have trust issues.”
I nodded slowly. “I get that. But trauma isn’t an excuse to treat people like dirt.”
She swallowed hard. “You’re right. I was awful.”
I accepted her apology—sort of.
But let’s just say… she’s real careful about how she treats service staff now. And Mike? He made damn sure she knew—messing with his sister? Big mistake.
