Take the apron off, sweetheart. The owner’s son is here, and we need someone

I didn’t go to the kitchen. I went to the private elevator at the back, the one only management was supposed to use, and pressed the button for the penthouse office. Brittany didn’t know something very important about me. Two years ago, when I applied for the hostess job, I used my mother’s maiden name on the application. Hannah Doyle. My real name is Hannah Maren. My father owns this building, this restaurant, and the other six locations across the state. He’d asked me to work a year incognito before stepping into operations, so I’d understand the floor before I ever sat in a boardroom. Tonight wasn’t a soft launch I was attending as staff. It was the night I was being introduced to the investors as the new Director of Guest Experience. When the elevator opened, my father was waiting with a garment bag and a quiet smile. “You’re late, sweetheart,” he said. Twenty minutes later, I walked back into the dining room in a deep emerald dress, my birthmark uncovered, a small gold pin on my collar that read MAREN. Brittany was mid-laugh with the blonde hostess when she saw me. The color drained from her face so fast I almost felt bad. Almost. My father stepped up beside me, tapped his glass, and welcomed everyone to the launch. “And I’d like you all to meet my daughter, Hannah Maren, who has spent the last two years learning every inch of this restaurant from the ground up. She’ll be leading our hospitality division starting tonight.” The applause was thunderous. Brittany’s mouth opened and closed like she was drowning. I walked over to her slowly, picked up the apron she’d made me remove, and folded it into her hands. “You said we needed someone who looked the part out front,” I said softly. “I agree. Please clear your locker by morning.” She didn’t cry until she reached the door. I turned back to my guests and smiled with the whole side of my face, birthmark and all.