tw-24

“Venison steaks for table 4, and get a move on will you? Duke Featherington does not like his meat cold,” the chief supervisor barked at me as I barged through the doors to collect the latest order. I huffed as I picked up the warm plates from the serving table, angrily eyeballing this supervisor and the chef currently preparing food for a posh banquet containing over a hundred guests. “You know, I’d be able to serve the food faster if I didn’t have to wear these heels!” I growled before I could hold my tongue. The spectacularly orange-skinned, blonde-haired supervisor, a charming woman by name of Debra, frowned disapprovingly at me as she responded, “Staff will wear whatever the Duke deems it suitable to for staff to wear, now get going!” I huffed again as I picked up the plates and spun on the point of said heels as I made to walk out the kitchen, feeling spectacularly self-conscious in this get-up as I barged through the swing door. I narrowly missed another member of the