The company was planning a team-building retreat when Cody Francis, our newly hired administrative intern, approached me privately during lunch. “Simon, I heard your family owns that boutique eco-estate upstate. The company has a retreat next weekend—why don’t we host the picking event there?” He smiled, that slick, overly familiar smile of a young man who thought he could charm his way into anything. “We’re all colleagues, after all. The company will throw you a five-hundred-dollar stipend. Consider it a way to support your small business.” I stared at him, momentarily speechless. My estate, Linden Hills, is the premier private sanctuary in the valley. It’s an exclusive haven featuring luxury glamping, stone-fired grills, organic pick-your-own orchards, and private tasting pavilions. A single day pass costs $150 per person, let alone a private buyout. With over fifty people in our office, a weekend booking should have cost the company over fifteen thousand dollars. Yet here was Cody, trying to secure a full-scale corporate buyout for a measly five hundred bucks, expecting to walk away looking like a hero. I kept my voice polite but firm. “I’m sorry, Cody. The estate is fully booked and paid for by another client next weekend. The schedule is locked in; we can’t change it.” I thought that would be the end of it. But that very afternoon, Cody went completely rogue. He posted a high-profile announcement on the company’s main Slack channel and his personal social media. “Huge news, everyone! For this quarter’s retreat, we are heading to a private, luxury boutique estate upstate!” “Drop a reaction below to RSVP. Everything—food, drinks, activities, and fruit picking—is completely covered! Plus ones and family members are welcome!” The Slack channel exploded. Colleagues flooded the thread with praise, calling Cody a miracle worker for securing such an exclusive spot. Even our boss, Mr. Henderson, chimed in, praising his initiative and resourcefulness. Watching the screen light up with endless praise emojis, a cold weight settled in my stomach. He wanted to hijack my private property, use my life’s work to build his own reputation, and play the generous benefactor at my expense? He was about to learn that some lines aren’t meant to be crossed. … During the afternoon lull, Cody sent me a text. “Come on, Simon. Five hundred dollars for a small farm is a sweet deal. You aren’t losing anything here.” My thumbs hovered over the keyboard. I let out a slow breath before typing back: “It’s not about the money, Cody. We have a legally binding contract. The other client paid a full deposit. If I breach it, the penalty is three times the booking fee. I can’t afford that loss.” A minute later, my phone vibrated. Cody was calling. The moment I answered, his tone had shed all its previous warmth, replaced by a patronizing, heavy-handed pressure. “Simon, the company has invested so much in you over the years. Where is your loyalty? Where is your gratitude?” I squeezed my eyes shut, keeping my voice level. “The estate was booked months in advance. We physically cannot host another group—” “Then tell the other client to reschedule,” Cody cut me off, his voice dripping with condescension. “Giving you this booking is a favor. We’re putting money in your pocket. Just get it done.” Before I could reply, the line went dead. Half an hour later, when Mr. Henderson asked for an update on the retreat logistics, Cody shared a series of high-res promotional photos of Linden Hills—photos he had lifted directly from our official website. One of the senior analysts, noticing the luxury branding, took a screenshot and posted it in the thread: “Wait, Cody. I looked up this place. Individual day passes are $150. For a group our size, a two-day retreat is going to blow our budget wide open.” Cody replied instantly, adding a smug little winking emoji. “Don’t worry, everyone! I worked my magic and negotiated a special rate. A flat five hundred dollars for the entire buyout. Everything is covered. Eat, drink, and be merry on the company’s dime!” The Slack channel erupted again. “Cody, you are incredible! How did you even pull this off? This place is practically impossible to book!” “Exactly! I’ve been trying to get a reservation there for my anniversary for six months! Five hundred dollars is insane!” Even Mr. Henderson posted: “Excellent work, Cody. Saving the company money while elevating our standards. This is exactly the kind of efficiency I love to see.” I stared at the screen, a bitter laugh escaping my throat. Using my sanctuary to paint himself as a corporate savior. It was sickening. I typed directly into the main channel: “The estate has been booked by another client for months. We need to find another venue for the retreat.” Instantly, the backlash started. “Simon, Cody already said it’s handled,” one of the account executives wrote. “What’s your issue? Are you just jealous because an intern is outshining you?” “Honestly,” another added. “If a luxury estate can offer a deal that cheap, what were those thousands of dollars we spent on Simon’s previous events actually going toward?” “Now that you mention it… did Simon take a kickback on those vendor fees?” Before I could type a defense, my phone rang. It was Cody again. “Simon, what the hell are you doing? I already told everyone it’s a go!” his voice hissed through the speaker. “Are you really going to hold out because of five hundred dollars? We’re colleagues. Why do you have to be so petty?” “I’ve made myself perfectly clear,” I said, my voice cold. “The estate is booked. There is no availability. Furthermore, the client who booked it is Kingsley—” “Then call them and ask them to move their dates!” Cody interrupted. “The company’s plans are locked in. Can’t you just cooperate for once and show some team spirit?” I was past the point of anger; now, it was just pure absurdity. During last year’s annual gala, I spent two months meticulously planning every detail. When Cody joined as an intern, he begged to help. Trusting him, I handed over the master execution schedule and vendor contacts. The event was a massive success. But when Mr. Henderson asked who designed the layout and secured the VIP catering, Cody swapped my name for his on the final presentation slides, claiming my two months of sweat and sleepless nights as his own. Back then, he had cornered me in the breakroom, saying: “Simon, if this gala goes well, I get a full-time offer. You understand, right? We’re team players.” I had let it go. I told myself he was young, struggling, and desperate to survive in the city. I chose peace over conflict. But now, the client who booked the estate for next weekend was Kingsley Holdings—our company’s largest and most critical account. And this intern wanted me to bump them so he could throw a cheap office party. I let out a soft, dry chuckle. “Fine. If you want them to reschedule, you pay the cancellation fee.” “How much?” Cody scoffed. “Not much. Just twenty-five thousand dollars. Wire me the funds, and I’ll clear the weekend for you.” There was a sharp gasp on the other end. “Simon! Are you trying to extort me? I’m doing this for the company! Why would I pay you twenty-five grand?” He slammed the phone down. Seconds later, a notification popped up on my screen. Cody had tagged the entire company on Slack. “@channel I’m so sorry, everyone. It seems Simon is refusing to let us host the retreat at the orchard. Since he’s the event coordinator, my hands are tied. We’ll have to follow his lead.” It was a masterclass in manipulation. He knew I kept my personal life private and had never told anyone at the office that I owned Linden Hills. With a few carefully chosen words, he had painted himself as the helpless victim and cast me as the bitter gatekeeper ruining everyone’s fun. The channel went wild. Diane from Finance was the first to fire: “Simon, this is deeply unprofessional. Cody went above and beyond for this team. Why are you dragging your feet and sabotaging his hard work?” Brad from Marketing immediately joined the dogpile: “Seriously. It doesn’t cost you a dime, and we get a beautiful retreat. Why are you blocking this?” Another colleague chimed in: “Let’s call it what it is. Some people have been sitting in their comfortable chairs too long without delivering results. He’s probably terrified Cody is going to take his manager title.” I stared at the screen, my fingers hovering over the keys. I drafted a response, then deleted it. A moment later, a direct message from Mr. Henderson arrived, summoning Cody and Diane to his office. Five minutes later, my phone buzzed with the same summons. When I walked in, Mr. Henderson cleared his throat, leaning back in his leather chair. “Simon, you’ve been with us a long time. But I have to ask—why are you making things so difficult for our new talent?” Diane crossed her arms, nodding in agreement. “Cody managed to secure the county’s finest estate for five hundred dollars. In contrast, Simon, the budgets you’ve submitted for past retreats have been astronomical. It makes one wonder…” The implication hung heavy and foul in the air. I let out a harsh laugh. “So, you’re accusing me of embezzling company funds through vendor kickbacks?” Silence stretched across the room, but the suspicion in their eyes was unmistakable. The urge to burn it all down flared hot in my chest. I wanted to scream the truth in their faces. “You can’t go to that estate because I—” “Look, Simon,” Cody cut in smoothly, wearing a mask of mock sympathy. “We’re all on the same team here. Some things are better left unsaid. There’s no need to make a scene.” Mr. Henderson shot me a stern look. “Cody has organized this beautifully. Simon, you are to hand over all event responsibilities to him immediately. And given the discrepancies Diane has raised, we will be conducting a full audit of your past event accounts. Consider yourself suspended indefinitely, effective today.” I froze. Six years. Six years of working late nights, of leveraging my personal network to secure discounted rates for this company, of quiet loyalty. And it took an intern’s cheap lie to strip me of everything I had built. Before, when planning retreats, I had called in personal favors to get us premium venues at cost. Now, they suspected me of stealing, all while trying to bully me into giving up my own multi-million-dollar property for five hundred dollars. I clenched my fists, taking a deep, steadying breath. “Fine,” I said, my voice deadly quiet. “If you don’t believe me, run the audit. Review every receipt, every invoice, every transaction. If you find a single cent unaccounted for, I’ll pay you back tenfold.” Mr. Henderson sneered. “Don’t tempt me, Simon. Keep your pride; you’ll need it when the truth comes out.” I turned on my heel and walked out of the office. In the hallway, the hushed whispers of my colleagues followed me like a physical weight. I returned to my desk, opened my laptop, and began systematically organizing six years of vendor contracts, price comparisons, and bank statements. I remembered my first day here, fresh out of college, eager and naive. I had stayed because Henderson had promised that this company was a family, that loyalty would be rewarded. Over the years, I had quietly used Linden Hills as an unspoken perk, hosting our VIP clients there under the guise of “exclusive promotional partnerships” to help Henderson close deals. I never asked for credit. I just wanted to do my job. And this was my reward. “Simon, Mr. Henderson asked me to collect your transition files.” Cody was standing over my desk, a triumphant smirk playing on his lips. Without a word, I sent the compiled archive to his inbox. He clicked through the files, then leaned down, lowering his voice so only I could hear. “You know, Simon, the boss is dead set on this audit. You and I both know you’ve been skimmin’ off the top of those big budget events.” He tapped his fingers on my desk. “But I’m a reasonable guy. If you make sure the estate is ready for us next weekend, I might just tell Henderson that I looked over the books myself and found nothing. We can make this whole audit business disappear.” I looked up at him, genuinely astonished by his sheer audacity. He actually believed his own lie. He thought I was a thief, and he was trying to blackmail me with it. Cody swaggered back to his desk. Within minutes, he posted a signup sheet on Slack, adding a bold note: “All staff are welcome to bring family and guests. Unlimited premium food, wood-fired barbecue, and fresh cherry picking—all fully covered by the company!” Within thirty minutes, the registration list exploded. With spouses, partners, and children, the headcount quickly climbed past a hundred. As the sun began to set, Cody walked back to my desk with a printed roster and a massive list of logistics. “Here’s the final count: one hundred and eight people. We’ll need premium beef, seafood, craft beers, and all the recreational gear ready by Friday morning. Consider this your chance to redeem yourself, Simon. Make sure it’s perfect.” I glanced at the paper, then looked him dead in the eye. “I told you. The estate is not available.” Cody’s smile curdled into a cold sneer. “Stop bluffing, Simon. If you don’t cooperate, I’ll make sure Henderson hands those audit files straight to the police. Let’s see how much your stubbornness is worth when you’re wearing handcuffs.” Seeing that I wasn’t reacting, he assumed I was cowed into submission. He turned back to the Slack channel, painting an elaborate picture of the upcoming weekend. “Get ready for the ultimate feast, everyone! Organic Rainier cherries and plums straight from the branch—all you can eat! We’ll have wagyu beef skewers, fresh oysters, and premium craft bars. Everything is prepped and ready!” The channel was a flurry of praise. “Cody is a legend! This is a massive step up from what Simon used to organize!” “Wagyu and oysters? This is incredible!” Even Mr. Henderson posted three thumbs-up emojis. I quietly packed my personal belongings into a cardboard box, shut down my computer, and walked out. The next morning, my first day of suspension, I stayed in bed. But at 8:00 AM, my phone began to buzz with texts from Cody. “Simon, I hope you’re upstate setting up. Make sure the premium meats are iced. The boss expects a flawless experience!” I stared at the screen, my patience entirely depleted. “I told you twice. The estate is closed to you.” I blocked his number immediately. I thought that would buy me some peace, but less than an hour later, my phone rang again. This time, it was Pete, the head caretaker of Linden Hills. “Mr. Simon! We have a major situation here!” Pete’s voice was strained, drowning out a loud, chaotic din in the background. “A massive caravan of cars—over a hundred people—just showed up! They claim they’re from your company and they’ve completely bypassed the security gate!” A chill ran down my spine. “What?” “And that’s not the worst of it,” Pete gasped, his voice trembling. “Mr. Kingsley from Kingsley Holdings is staying in the North Pavilion. He came out of his villa to find a crowd of strangers setting up portable grills right on his private lawn. He is furious, Simon.” I closed my eyes, taking a long, measured breath to steady my racing pulse. “Pete, listen to me. Apologize to Mr. Kingsley immediately. Tell him I am on my way. Then, call the staff and tell those trespassers to leave.” I hung up and threw on some clothes, but before I could grab my keys, Pete called back. This time, he sounded devastated. “Simon… they won’t leave. They’re ignoring us. Some of them ran into the young cherry orchard—they’re tearing off unripe green cherries by the handful and throwing them on the ground! They’ve already trampled and snapped dozens of the new Italian grafted saplings we planted last autumn!” My grip tightened around the steering wheel as I sat in my car. Those saplings. I had hand-selected them from a heritage nursery in Tuscany, waiting nearly a year for import clearance. “And Simon…” Pete’s voice dropped to a whisper. “A guy named Cody just knocked over the table in the pavilion. He shattered Mr. Kingsley’s bottle of Romanée-Conti.” I felt the blood drain from my face. “Get the security cameras running, Pete,” I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Record every single one of them. Do not engage. I’m calling the police.” I dialed 911. By the time I neared the local sheriff’s department, my phone was vibrating continuously. An unknown number was flashing on the dashboard. I pressed answer. Cody’s voice screamed through the speakers, frantic and breathless. “Simon! Where the hell are you?! The police just showed up and they’re arresting everyone!”
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