I followed Priscilla into the kitchen, the clatter of dirty plates and clinking glasses greeting me like an old friend. She snapped her fingers and barked instructions at the real kitchen staff, treating seasoned professionals like children. Then, she turned to me.
“Roll up your sleeves. You look clean enough—time to get your hands dirty,” she said with a smirk, clearly enjoying the power trip.
I stared at her for a heartbeat too long, then nodded. Inside, I was simmering. But this wasn’t the time for fireworks. Not yet.
So I rolled up my sleeves, tied on an apron, and started washing dishes like I’d been doing it all my life. The staff gave me curious glances—they hadn’t seen me around before—but the pace was too intense for questions. I scrubbed, rinsed, dried. My hands stung from the hot water, but my pride was stronger than the pain.
All the while, I could hear the laughter and music from upstairs—the people clinking champagne glasses, making backhanded jokes, pretending they were changing the world while sneering at the very people making their party function.
But then came the sound that changed everything.
The front doors opened. And in the span of thirty seconds, the atmosphere in the kitchen changed entirely.
“Where is my wife?” Logan’s voice boomed from the entrance hall—calm, but firm, the kind of voice that silenced a crowd without even trying. The clinking of glasses stopped. Conversations died mid-sentence. I didn’t need to see him to know he had arrived.
Priscilla’s heels clicked toward the entrance. “Logan!” she sang out, her voice syrupy and fake. “So glad you could join us—”
“Where is she?” Logan asked again. Not rude. Not aggressive. Just resolute.
“I—who?” she blinked.
“My wife,” he said slowly. “Aliyah.”
Her face froze.
The kitchen doors burst open, and in walked Logan, looking like he’d stepped straight off the cover of Forbes: black tuxedo, sharp jawline, eyes scanning the room with laser precision.
When his gaze landed on me, his expression softened. He crossed the kitchen in three long strides and took my dish-soaked hands in his.
“Why are you washing dishes?” he asked gently, his eyes full of concern.
Before I could answer, Priscilla spoke up behind him.
“She said her name was Aliyah—I assumed she was with the catering company. Honestly, if she didn’t want to be mistaken for staff, perhaps she shouldn’t have been wearing a uniform.”
Logan turned.
And the room dropped ten degrees.
“Did you order her to wash dishes at my gala? In my home?”
Priscilla’s mouth opened. No words came out.
“You spoke down to my wife, belittled her, and humiliated her in front of staff and guests?”
Still, silence.
Logan straightened. “Everyone in this room who mistreated her is going to regret it.”
Then he turned to the kitchen staff. “You,” he addressed the head chef, “deserve better than this chaos. Starting tomorrow, we’re tripling your budget and cutting ties with Priscilla’s team. You’ll report directly to my assistant.”
Gasps echoed from the ballroom.
“And as for the rest of the guests—those who treated my wife like dirt?” He smiled coldly. “Let’s just say their donations tonight will be matched—and publicly credited to Aliyah, the true host of this evening.”
That’s when the phones started buzzing. Logan’s team had already uploaded photos and livestreamed the confrontation. My identity was no longer a secret.
As Logan walked me out, hand in hand, I glanced back. Priscilla looked like she might faint. And Catherine, the woman who said the champagne was too warm, dropped her glass.
The lesson? Never underestimate the quiet woman in the corner.
Because the moment she stands up—
The whole room listens.
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