Meeting Again

DEIRDRE

"Hey, Kelsey, could you pass me the wine glass?" my best friend of four years asked.

I handed her the Bordeaux wine glass, specifically reserved for serving elite guests according to the management's instructions.

The Luxe Bistro, located in the heart of Miraval, London, was known for its exclusive private members' clubs, luxury hotels, and upscale dining choices.

The Luxe Bistro particularly drew in affluent men and women whom the boss referred to as the "elite." While individuals from all walks of life were welcome, the restaurant predominantly attracted the wealthy, creating a clear distinction between the middle class and the elite.

With five stories, the building allocated the first floor to the average customer, reserving the upper floors for the elite clientele.

Despite having worked at the restaurant for a considerable time, I had never ventured onto the fifth floor until today. Stepping in, I instantly sensed the shift in the atmosphere. The air was thick with opulence, accompanied by a solemn melody playing softly in the background. The walls showcased paintings from renowned artists, and the chandeliers overhead sparkled like diamonds. Just like me, the servers donned pristine white uniforms, and the tables were adorned with white tablecloths and adorned with fresh flowers.

My attention was briefly drawn to a group of men in black suits entering, but I needed to focus on serving the guests promptly. My supervisor, Cristo Christos, approached with a stern expression. I quickly moved towards the oven, pretending to switch it on to avoid appearing as though I were stalling.

"Why is it taking so long?!" Cristo's voice came out as a bark, making me flinch and nearly spill the tray's contents on myself.

"I-It's ready!" I managed to stutter, avoiding his intense gaze.

"Good, because I'd hate to be short of staff right now," he stated, his glare unwavering.

My face twisted into a grimace before I nodded. This wasn't the first time I'd heard such words from him, and I had grown accustomed to his piercing glares. However, his yelling was something I could never become accustomed to; it simply grated on my nerves.

I knew he treated everyone poorly, not just me, but it still managed to get under my skin.

"Will you quit doing that and get going?" Cristo's tone snapped through the air, causing me to release the lid of the jug I had been fiddling with.

Holding my breath, I moved past him towards the table where I needed to deliver the order.

"Your orders, sirs," I mumbled as I reached the table where six men dressed in impeccably tailored black suits were seated.

Forcing a smile, I scrutinized each of them in turn. Stinkingly rich, impulsive, arrogant, and playboys – that's what I could discern from their personalities. Perhaps I shouldn't judge, but I had encountered too many individuals like them not to.

"You look exquisite," a blond man grinned, appraising me. His voice carried a refined French accent, each word carefully pronounced. He leaned in, his eyes flickering with desire as he addressed me with an endearment I had heard too often before. "Ma chérie."

Most of the men who had propositioned me spoke different languages, and I didn't need to guess their origins. My linguistic skills were extensive; I was fluent in five languages. I used to be a translator, though not by choice – I was a waitress in a restaurant.

A dark-haired man with a Grecian nose and a round face interrupted the blond man who had been ogling me. "Now, Jean," he murmured, "let the waitress do her job."

Jean, the blond man, rolled his eyes. "Come on, Lawrence," he said, grinning. "It's not my fault she looks alluring in this." He shrugged, his gaze lingering on the buttoned-down pencil skirt I was wearing.

I resisted the urge to pull down the hem of my skirt. Even if I tried, it wouldn't have made any difference; the skirt wouldn't have extended past my knees. The blouse was far too revealing, showing off more than it should. I was thankful that Cristo had allowed me to use a scarf most of the time to cover my chest, which had grown larger after giving birth.

Compliments from men weren't new to me, so Jean's behavior wasn't my first encounter. However, his actions were more than just complimentary; they bordered on perversion, which infuriated me. I wished I could smack his handsome face for the way he leered at me.

"I think that's all," Lawrence's voice broke into my thoughts. I nodded and then pushed the liquor trolley forward. Suddenly, I felt a sharp smack on my backside, and I gasped, swiftly turning around.

Jean stood there, licking his lips. He casually flicked a card into the trolley and gestured a "call me" sign with his hand. Suppressing my anger, I bit my lip and clenched my fists as I made my way back to the kitchen. "Inconsiderate aristocrats!" I grumbled to myself, my steps heavy with frustration.

"Did someone do that again?" Kelsey asked, noticing my agitation.

I nodded, my teeth gritted. It wasn't the first time I had endured such an incident. I had reported similar situations to Cristo on multiple occasions, but he had advised me not to complain if I wished to keep my job. So, I had to bear the humiliation of these incidents now and then.

"Deirdre, you're beautiful. Look at yourself," Kelsey said, coming over to me. She gripped my shoulder and spun me around. "You have an elegant figure with the height of a supermodel. The clothes may not be ideal, but you manage to make them appear alluring, emphasizing your curves. Sometimes, I wonder if Cristo had you in mind when selecting these outfits."

"But that doesn't excuse being treated this way!"

"Yeah, I know," Kelsey admitted.

I huffed and rolled my eyes, doubting the validity of her claims about my curves. I considered myself rather plain. The only features I found remotely attractive were my ginger hair and my piercing green eyes. Everything else felt quite ordinary.

I had an aversion to my oval face; it seemed to emphasize my sharp cheekbones and pointed chin. My appearance mirrored that of my mother, a woman I deeply resented for abandoning me when I was just two years old. The fact that she had prioritized something else over caring for her child was something I struggled to comprehend.

I had no memories of her; all I knew was that she was Irish and my father was Nigerian. She had discarded him because she found a wealthier man to be with. Or perhaps it was due to my father being of a different race; that was what I had heard from my father's family while they were retelling the story. She had hurled curses at them and labeled me as a cursed child for being of mixed heritage.

Even though my father wouldn't openly acknowledge that she had made those hurtful remarks, I couldn't ignore the fact that she had chosen to engage with the man she deemed unsuitable. My mother had abandoned me, leaving me to fend for myself on the streets, exposed to the dangers that lurked there. Fortunately, someone who was acquainted with my father's identity rescued me. As it turned out, they were friends.

Growing up, I craved a motherly figure desperately. On every birthday, I would secretly hope for cards or messages from her, but it remained wishful thinking – I received nothing. Just then, a scream from outside jolted me from my reverie.

Kelsey, wiping her hands on her apron, raised an eyebrow. "What's that?"

"I'm not sure," I mumbled, my attention drawn to the commotion outside.

Straining my ears, I picked up on multiple voices, including those of two men. One was unmistakably Jean, his French accent distinguishing him. The other voice seemed familiar; an image formed in my mind of a tall, brooding man with piercing gray eyes, russet hair, and inviting lips.

"No," I mumbled, shaking my head. It couldn't be him. He was miles away on his island, surrounded by exotic beauties. I tried to concentrate on my cooking, but the escalating noise outside drew my attention. Torn between curiosity and caution, I scanned the kitchen, hoping to avoid Cristo's notice. Eventually, curiosity won out, and I approached the curtain, intending to peer outside discreetly.

Before I could do so, I felt a sudden tug pulling me out of the kitchen with force. My eyes widened in astonishment as I was whisked away from the kitchen and directed towards the elevator. Inside the elevator, I turned to catch a glimpse of my captor's face: Matteo Ferrari.

My heart raced as shock coursed through me. I was being forcibly taken away from my workplace, and my abductor was none other than Matteo Ferrari.

My ex-husband.