Dad’s protégée had actually made me weak at the knees. The last thing I needed was Circe blurting out another bomb I would have to defuse. She beamed, and panic gnawed at my composure.
Loathe to admit her face was familiar, I focused on the woman in question. “She looks like every other blonde tourist.”
“The moment I saw her, I knew I’d seen her someplace,” Circe continued undeterred. “After what happened, I took a photo and reverse googled her.” She shoved her phone screen in my face. “She’s Frieda freakin’ Baron. My university roommate was obsessed with her. Tell me I’m not right.”
I bit back a reprimand about phone use. The photo showed a smiling blonde in a couture dress at a red carpet. Maybe she’d won Best Evil Profile. “Yes, that’s her.”
With my back to the tables, I clicked through to Wikipedia. Big Brother participant, influencer, and— My finger froze. Daughter of Heinrich Baron?
The bomb turned out to be nuclear.
“Should I ask for a selfie?” Circe seemed oblivious to the family connection.
“Are you serious right now?” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop myself.
She gave me her signature wide-eyed look. With a deep mental sigh, I repositioned us so that neither of us faced the influencer and said, “Her father is Heinrich Baron. He spearheaded the IMF bailout, demonized our huge national debt. Ring any bells?”
Her lips parted. “The Baron of finance?”
Surprised that she knew the nickname the media gave him, I nodded. Then again, every Greek knew and feared him. There was nothing he couldn’t do, no limit he wouldn’t cross.
All color drained from her face. “My roommate never mentioned that.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “He ruined my uncle,” she said quietly. “First, he lost his shoe store in 2016. Then the bank foreclosed on his apartment.”
She paused, and I thought that was the end of it.
“I don’t have many memories of him because I was just a kid when he… He didn’t survive the fallout.” Her voice wobbled with unshed tears.
I swallowed hard. Too many Greeks had similar stories. Agistri had nearly shut down too; Dad took a second mortgage to keep us afloat. Most blamed Heinrich Baron more than our governments.
I wrapped a hand around my throat. Maybe this was why Dad had taken Circe under his wing.
Someone laughed, the happy sound resembling nails on a chalkboard. A small shudder shook Circe, and I swept my hand across her back.
“I can only imagine what your family went through.” If I were Circe, I would feel bad serving the woman.
I glanced at the influencer, and my mouth went dry. She was watching us—or Circe to be precise. I’d swear under oath there was glee in her eyes. “You want me to take over the Baron table?” I asked Circe.
She sniffed, then managed a small smile. “Yes, thank you.” She walked away, her steps heavy.
Taking a moment, I inhaled deeply. Logically, I knew Frieda wasn’t to blame for her father, but it was hard not to.
I turned toward the dining area. My lungs froze. While I saw the rest of the taverna in crystal clarity, table six appeared grainy and dim. Her royal blue bag was a sickly baby blue, like a bad counterfeit.
“I’m so losing it,” I muttered, my voice trembling.
First, the orders, and now this? I stumbled backward and bumped into the staff couch. God, had any customers seen me act weirdly? I heaved a relieved sigh. No, they all seemed preoccupied with their food and company. I didn’t dare look at the Baron table again.
Stop it!
Stumbling through the dining doors, I went to throw some water on my face. Frieda wasn’t just a difficult customer anymore—she had clout and could sink us. The only thing worse would be if her father was here instead.
But there was nothing I could do.
Unwilling to throw in the towel, I focused on the other customers. I flew from table to table, asking if everything was to their liking and trying to address complaints before they turned into problems—something I’d watched Dad do a thousand times.
Too soon, I had to deal with table six.
“How’s everything?” I said and braced myself.
“Finally, you can help me.” True to her name, she acted the Baroness and made it sound like I’d been late to perform my duties as her personal valet.
“Certainly. Is there a problem?” I asked through gritted teeth.
“This dish is somewhat better but still not right. Please tell your chef—oh, is this him?” She looked at Yorgos who came to stand next to me.
What was he doing here? My heart drummed against my ribs.
“Yes, but he doesn’t speak English.”
She ignored me. “You. Need. To. Use. Par-sley.”
If she treated Yorgos like a preschooler, he might throw a tantrum to match.
I translated to Yorgos and added, “Please, stay calm.”
“Tell her saffron would drown out the parsley. And that she wouldn’t know flavor if it hit her with a pot,” he said as if he hadn’t heard me, and I thanked God Frieda couldn’t understand.
Ms. Katerina at the adjacent table choked on her retsina. Could the ground open up beneath my feet now please? Yorgos might be right, but it only took one ornery person to spread that we badmouthed customers.
“Others can hear,” I said in a low voice.
Turning to Frieda and her ghost-like companion, I said, “I’m sorry, but we can’t cook the fish again.”
Frieda’s eyebrows furrowed. “Did you forget to translate something?”
Yorgos nudged me. “You didn’t mention the saffron.”
God, when did I enter culinary court over a stupid fish?
“That! What did he say?” Frieda said, pointing a well-manicured finger at him.
The table on my left had gone quiet. Not even their cutlery moved as they watched us. My chest felt trapped in a tightening corset.
“He explained why he didn’t use parsley. And—”
“I’m sure he means well, but I’m paying and he’ll make it my way.” She raised her chin.
If Yorgos lunged for her, could I stop him? Did I want to? Well… I would, but after he used her Gucci bag as a tzatziki container.
Her father's callous treatment of Greece, her own rude entitlement, Dad's behavior, Agistri's problems. I'd been filing it away all week. The drawer gave. Linking my hands together behind my back, I dropped my smile. “Apologies, but I won’t do that.”
Her eyes widened. Even her silent friend seemed surprised enough to glance up at me. He was quite handsome.
“Are you out of red mullet? That’s understandable for your establishment I guess.”
This morning, I might’ve been tempted to lie. It was the easy way out.
“No, we’re not out,” I snapped. “You can’t keep ordering dishes off the menu and expect us to indulge you. We’re not on your payroll.”
There were limits to what we should endure in the line of professional duty. Dad would’ve understood. Yorgos must’ve read my tone because he stood straighter next to me, a fight-ready sentinel. I almost leaned against him.
“Well, I never...” Frieda was at a loss for words.
Did her friend smirk or was I desperate for validation?
She threw a crumpled napkin on the table like a grenade. “This is unacceptable. You can’t treat customers this way,” Frieda said, her voice rising.
All eyes in the taverna turned toward us now—the unexpected main attraction.
I gave a slight head bow. “I understand. You’re welcome to pay the bill, minus the mullet, and leave if you’re not happy.” I extended my arm to show her the exit.
Her face turned pink. She let out a string of expletives while she gathered her things. In the quiet taverna where only children chirped and chairs scraped, everyone heard her. I mentally winced.
Her friend had only his phone so he just stood there waiting for her with all the grace of a cucumber. His gaze met mine, and he rubbed the back of his neck. The movement revealed a spider tattoo on his arm which surprised me. Judging by his behavior, I would’ve expected him to identify as a lamb.
Frieda Baron got up and made me feel small—literally. Granted, I was on the short side, but she had supermodel height in flats. She finished demolishing me by throwing on the table a few hundred-euro bills, more than covering the bill.
“Keep the change. You’ll need it after the story I’m going to post online.” Her height advantage made the words feel even more cutting. “You’ll be out of business in a month.”
She stalked out of the taverna like she owned the whole of Cyclades. It was as if all the air had whooshed out of the room with her, urging me to follow.
I just stood there dazed, her threat playing in a loop in my head. Had I made a huge mistake?
Yorgos cleared his throat. “I came out because I felt bad about the whole thing, but you handled her exceptionally,” he said softly.
“I appreciate it.”
He opened his mouth, but thought better of it and retreated to his safe place, the kitchen, instead. Whispers, then hushed conversations spread throughout the dining area. I needed to pretend everything was okay, so I started clearing their table. The plates clattered as I stacked them on one forearm. Taking a beat to center myself, I glanced around. A flash of red broke through my haze.
That didn’t belong here. I put all the plates back down and kneeled to pick up the eye-catching object: a red earring was drowning in a puddle of olive oil.
No, it wasn’t red actually. It had more of a coral color, and its design was a loose knot. The reason it fell became clear—its clasp was missing.
Despite moving plates, sweeping my hand across the tablecloth and even looking at the worn marble floor under the table, I couldn’t find it.
It had to belong to Frieda. How had the earring fallen from her ear? Expensive jewelry was rarely faulty, and our fight hadn’t turned physical.
“Everything all right?” Circe’s voice from above startled me, and I banged my head on the table’s underside.
Groaning, I cursed. “Yeah, everything’s fine.”
I forced myself not to glare at her as I got up. All night, she was never where she should be. And picked the worst time to break her pattern.
Her forehead creased. “What were you doing down there?”
The question caught me off-guard. Maybe that was why I said, “I thought I saw a knife but was mistaken. Since you’re here though, you can finish up.”
Without feeling a drop of remorse, I walked away, the coral earring safely tucked inside my fist. In the wake of her parting shot, having something of Frieda’s felt like a victory. The heiress would just have to be an earring short from now on.