07/08/2025
I own a popular, upscale bistro in Portland — farm-to-table, two-week waitlist, and I'm hands-on with everything. My brother Mike, who lives out of state, called to say he'd proposed. I hadn't met the fiancée yet — just heard she was "intense." He planned to bring her for dinner at my place that Friday. I prepped a table, got the staff ready, and ended up helping host since we were slammed. Around 6:40, a woman in a tight red designer dress, stilettos, and platinum hair strutted in like she owned the place. "Name for the reservation?" I asked. She gave me a once-over and sneered, "Wait — you work here? You're kind of overdressed for staff. Maybe tone it down? My fiancé’s coming and I don't want him distracted. This is my night." I blinked. "Excuse me?" She sighed. "Get me the manager. NOW!" I nodded sweetly. "Sure. Be right back." Two minutes later, I returned. "Hey again! Everything okay?" She frowned. "Seriously? I asked for the manager." I smiled. "I am the manager. And I own this place." She froze — and just then, Mike walked in, hugged me, and said, "Here is my favorite sister!" At that moment, I saw the color drain from the woman's face. ⬇️