Maisie’s POV
The kitchen doors swung open for what felt like the hundredth time that night, and Greta’s voice cut through the clatter like a blade.
“Maisie. You’re on dinner service. High table. Now.”
I froze mid-motion, the silver tray of chocolate-dipped strawberries trembling in my hands. One berry rolled off the edge and hit the floor with a soft, accusing plop.
“Me?” My voice came out small, cracked from disuse.
Greta didn’t look up from the carving board where she was slicing prime rib with surgical precision. “Yes, you. One of the servers twisted her ankle carrying the last wine crate. We’re short. Move.”
I opened my mouth to argue—something about how I was filthy from kitchen grease, how my hands still shook, how I wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near the important guests—but
