In the middle of the workday, Brad suddenly jumped up from his cubicle and slapped me on the shoulder. “Hey, Mr. Campbell’s birthday is next week! Since your family owns that high-end seafood place next door, here’s the plan: I’ll put down a hundred bucks, and we’ll all go there to celebrate his birthday! On you!” He started counting off the menu on his fingers. “We’ll need jumbo Maine lobsters, Alaskan king crab, and fresh-caught red snapper. Don’t skimp on the appetizers. Keep the beer and wine flowing. Oh, and remember Mr. Campbell has gout, so watch the shellfish on his plate. Put on a good show, Ian. Don’t embarrass our department.” He gave me a heavy, conspiratorial nudge. “Once Mr. Campbell is happy, he might throw a nice fat bonus your way. You’ll be laughing all the way to the bank.” He grinned, practically beaming with self-satisfaction. “You make a profit, you look good, and the boss is happy. Honestly, buddy, you owe me a huge thank-you for setting this up.” I stared at him, completely bewildered. My family runs a tiny, greasy-spoon breakfast joint that sells cheap breakfast sandwiches and bagels. Where on earth did he get high-end seafood from? When I flatly refused, Brad rolled his eyes, muttered something under his breath, and walked away. That evening, the team Slack channel exploded. “This Saturday is Mr. Campbell’s birthday dinner! My treat for a massive seafood feast! All-you-can-eat, and yes, families are welcome! Drop your name in the thread if you’re in!” Within ten minutes, over fifty people had RSVP’d. “My dad’s never even had real king crab. Thanks, Brad, for the treat!” “My kids love bluefin tuna. Save some plates for us!” Brad enthusiastically agreed to every request, posted the address of the restaurant, and Venmo’d me $99. “Ian, got the cash. Make sure the ingredients are fresh-caught. Don’t rip off your own colleagues, alright?” I looked at the address and laughed. It was “The Blue Anchor,” the luxury seafood restaurant right next door to my dad’s diner. The owner, Sal, was a former heavy who had cleaned up his act years ago, with tattoos running all the way up to his jawline. The last guy who tried to dine and dash there was probably still in physical therapy. … “That seafood restaurant isn’t mine,” I typed into the group chat. “My family owns the little breakfast joint next to it. You guys have the wrong place.” The chat went dead silent for two seconds. Then Brad dropped a video clip. It was a video of me walking into The Blue Anchor yesterday. In the footage, the hostess smiled warmly at me and said, “Welcome back, Ian! What are you having today?” Brad followed the video with a string of question marks. “Not yours? Then why does the hostess welcome you like family and ask what you want? Ian, nobody’s asking for a free handout. I sent you cash. I’m trying to support your family business, and you’re playing hard to get? That’s just petty.” My heart sank. The video must have been sneakily filmed when I left work yesterday. Before I could even type an explanation, Zack, who was usually friendly and laughed at my jokes, chimed in first. “Come on, Ian, is this really necessary? Nobody’s trying to steal your money.” “Seriously,” another colleague wrote. “Who can’t afford seafood these days? Playing dumb like this is honestly disgusting.” Linda from HR sent a string of thumbs-down emojis. “Seafood is everywhere now. Why act like it’s liquid gold?” Someone from Marketing immediately followed up. “We’re going there to support your place, to bring in foot traffic. Without us, a place like that would be dead on a Saturday. We’re doing you a favor.” “I was planning to film an Instagram Reel and post a review,” another wrote. “That’s free promotion. Usually, businesses pay thousands for that kind of marketing. I should be charging you.” “Think about the big picture, Ian. Don’t lose sleep over pennies. Be generous, and doors will open for you.” My fingers shook as I stared at the screen. My dad and Sal were just long-time neighbors. Sal was a great guy who occasionally invited me in for a free meal because he liked my dad’s baking. How on earth had that turned into my family owning the place? I took a deep breath and typed furiously. “I’m just neighbors with the owner. He’s a family friend who treats me sometimes. I’m telling the truth. But if you guys don’t mind, we can host the dinner at our diner. I’ll ask my dad to buy some fresh seafood from the market, and he can cook it up. He’s an amazing chef, I promise you won’t be disappointed…” Silence fell over the chat again. Then: “That greasy little breakfast diner? Gross. If we’re going there, count me out.” “Me too.” Brad tagged everyone: “Don’t worry, guys. We’re going to the place at the address I pinned. It’s definitely his. See you all Saturday!” The chat instantly lit up again. “@Ian, I want the bluefin tuna toro sliced extra thin.” “Make sure the king crab is garlic-steamed, and don’t crack the legs too early.” “My kids only eat premium tuna. Prep extra portions.” A mother sent a voice note. “Brad is so generous! My kids wanted to say thank you.” Cue a toddler’s lisping voice saying, “Thank you, Uncle Brad!” The chat flooded with praise for Brad. Even Mr. Campbell, who had been silent the entire time, chimed in with several thumbs-up emojis. “Brad’s team-first attitude is exactly what this company needs. Employee of the Year material.” Brad replied instantly with a blushing emoji. “Just doing my part, sir.” The next second, my direct messages buzzed. It was Brad. “Ian, be smart. Don’t ruin Mr. Campbell’s birthday. It won’t end well for you.” “If you think the money is too low, fine, I’ll throw in another hundred.” He sent another $100 over Venmo. “Nearly two hundred bucks for a meal. You’re easily pocketing a hundred and fifty in pure profit. Happy now? Squeezing money out of your own coworkers… you’re a real piece of work.” I laughed in sheer disbelief. Two hundred dollars. For over fifty people eating lobster and king crab. And he thought I was making a hundred and fifty in profit? I didn’t reply to him. Instead, I opened Mr. Campbell’s direct message. I took a clear photo of our diner’s business license and the prominent sign outside: “O’Connor’s Breakfast Spot”. “Mr. Campbell, I’m not trying to get out of anything. That seafood restaurant really isn’t ours. My family runs a small breakfast diner. This is a massive misunderstanding. I can’t promise any reservations or discounts. Could you please clarify this in the group chat?” It immediately showed as “Read”. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Half an hour. No response from Mr. Campbell. I went back to the main channel. Hundreds of messages had piled up. Brad’s icon was at the top. “Almost forgot, everyone! Ian’s family is throwing in custom seafood gift bags for us to take home! Don’t leave without yours!” The chat went wild. “Gift bags? I want caviar, wild sea cucumber, and white truffles!” “My whole family of six is coming. Do we get six bags?” “Can I swap the caviar for gold-grade bird’s nest? My wife just had a baby and needs the nourishment.” “I went to a seafood place last month, and a lobster dinner cost me eighty bucks. Such a rip-off. Ian’s family is so honest. This is what a neighborhood staple is all about.” Someone tagged me: “@Ian, my wife is allergic to shellfish. Can you steam a fresh red snapper just for her?” Another follow-up: “My dad has gout. Prepare a fresh pot of wild sea cucumber porridge. Make sure it’s made to order, not reheated.” I sneered at the screen. Not only were they demanding a free feast, they were treating me like their personal butler. I didn’t reply to a single message. The next morning, I walked straight into Mr. Campbell’s office. He was sitting on his leather sofa, sipping coffee. I got right to the point. “Mr. Campbell, did you see my message yesterday? That restaurant really doesn’t belong to me…” Mr. Campbell’s face darkened. He set his mug down with a heavy thud. “Ian, your attitude is becoming a serious issue.” My chest tightens. He frowned, tapping his desk sharply. “Do you honestly think I care about a birthday party? Do you think I can’t afford my own dinner?” “I am doing this for the company!” He slammed his hand down, looking deeply disappointed. “Brad is a senior employee who is spending his own hard-earned money to build team chemistry. Why? So a new guy like you has a chance to stand out in front of leadership! And instead of showing a shred of gratitude, you come into my office and lie to my face. It’s incredibly disappointing.” My hands clenched into fists. My voice rose. “I’m not lying—” He raised a dismissive hand. “Enough.” “Your probationary review is coming up, and teamwork counts for a massive portion of that evaluation. Go back to your desk and think long and hard about that.” Before I could speak, he ushers me out and slammed the door in my face. As soon as I sat down at my cubicle, a shadow fell over me. Brad stood there, arms crossed, a smug grin plastered on his face. “Ian, buddy. You’re new here. Don’t take things so seriously. Sometimes you have to give a little to get a little.” “It’s just one dinner. Keep the boss happy, and that full-time promotion is practically yours.” He sighed, putting on a paternal act. “When I started here, I spent my first year running errands and grabbing coffee for the senior staff. Did I complain? Not once.” I didn’t say a word. I leaned down, grabbed a cardboard box, and began packing up my desk. Brad’s smile falters. “What are you doing?” “I quit.” Several heads popped up from surrounding cubicles. Brad blinked, his voice turning shrill. “You’re quitting? Over a dinner?” He turned to the rest of the floor, raising his voice so everyone could hear. “Hey, listen to this! Kids these days are so fragile. We ask to eat at his place once, and he throws a tantrum and quits! Like we’re abusing him or something!” Muted scoffs echoed around the office. “Who is he trying to threaten with that?” “If he wants to leave, let him. He hasn’t even passed probation. Who does he think he is?” “Stop the drama. If you want more money, just say so. This passive-aggressive act is pathetic.” I ignored them, picked up my written resignation, and walked back to Mr. Campbell’s office. I slid the paper across his desk. Mr. Campbell swept it onto the floor without looking up. “I’m not approving this.” “I’m leaving anyway—” He slammed his hand on the desk, losing his temper. “This is a business, not a playground! You don’t just walk out whenever you feel like it! Get back to work. I said, wait for approval!” I stared at him for two seconds, then turned around and walked out. Back at my desk, Brad sneered. “Thought you were quitting? Why are you still here?” Whispers rippled through the office. “All bark, no bite.” “Brad, just forget it. Getting a meal out of him is like pulling teeth.” Brad chuckled coldly. “Oh, we are absolutely having that dinner.” He stepped closer, glaring at me. “Ian, you’d better play nice on Saturday. Don’t make an enemy out of this entire office. If you do, nobody is going to save you.” I looked down at my phone and opened my chat with Sal. “Hey Sal, I need a favor.” The next day was Saturday. At noon, loud pounding rattled my apartment door. “Ian! Open up!” Brad’s booming voice echoed through the hallway. “We’re here to pick you up! Ian!” The pounding turned to heavy fists, shaking the door frame. A neighbor peeked out. Brad called out, “Just his coworkers, here to take him to lunch!” Then he leaned close to the door, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. “Ian, your grandfather is still at that assisted living facility on Oak Street, right? If you don’t open this door, maybe we’ll go pay him a visit.” A hot surge of anger boiled in my chest. I swung the door open. Before I could utter a word, a hand grabbed the back of my collar. “About time!” Brad’s grip was painfully tight, hauling me toward the elevator. Two other male colleagues grabbed my arms, keeping me pinned. “You’re the guest of honor, Ian! Can’t have a party without you!” I stumbled down the stairs, my neck burning from where Brad had grabbed me. A dozen colleagues were waiting downstairs. When they saw me, they rolled their eyes. “Wow. Not even a permanent employee, and he has a bigger ego than the CEO.” “Making a whole group wait for you. Real class act.” They shoved me into the back of an SUV and drove me straight to “The Blue Anchor.” Brad shoved me into a chair at the center table, grabbed the menu, and started barking orders at the waiter. “We’ll start with jumbo Maine lobsters, five per table. Alaskan king crab legs, three ways. The live snapper, pan-seared. And double portions of the thick-cut bluefin tuna toro.” With every dish he ordered, he glanced at me. “Ian’s not going to mind, right? We’re all family here.” He added twelve premium wild sea abalones. “It’s Mr. Campbell’s birthday. We can’t go cheap. Ian’s cool with that, right?” I said nothing. Greg, sitting next to me, laughed. “Look at his face. He’s loaded. Don’t worry about his wallet.” Brad basically ordered the entire high-end section of the menu. The tables were overflowing. He finished, looking at me triumphantly. “Why so quiet, Ian? You’re not mad, are you?” Mr. Campbell tapped his knuckles on the table. “Ian, remember team solidarity. Lose the attitude.” He picked up his fork first. “Eat up, everyone! We don’t let a junior temp dictate our mood!” Everyone dug in. By the end of the meal, the gluttony was disgusting. Half-eaten tuna was spat onto plates. Kids were throwing expensive sea cucumbers on the floor like toys. A couple of guys were pouring bottles of Macallan 25 onto the floor to “liven up the atmosphere.” They smirked at me. “Heart hurting yet, Ian?” “Why would it? Brad paid him already. He’s making a killing on this.” “True.” Finally, stuffed and bloated, they started packing up the “gift bags.” Everyone walked away with three or four heavy bags, grinning from ear to ear. “I haven’t eaten like this since Thanksgiving. Ian, your family’s place is fantastic. We’re making this our official company spot!” Right then, the server walked in with a ridiculously long receipt. Brad’s smile falters for a fraction of a second. He immediately grabbed my shoulder and pushed me forward. “Ian, I already Venmo’d you the cash. Go ahead and settle the bill. We’re gonna head out.” He turned to run for the door, and the rest of the flock instantly followed. But the next second, the exit was blocked by a dozen burly men in black work shirts. The leader had biceps thicker than Brad’s thighs, with tattoos creeping all the way up his neck. Sal. His cold eyes swept the room. “Six tables. Thirty-six jumbo lobsters. Twenty-five orders of king crab. Fifteen wild abalones. Twelve fresh snappers. Eighteen platters of bluefin tuna toro. Twenty-four bottles of Macallan 25… and fifty-three luxury gift bags containing caviar and wild sea cucumber.” “Total comes to eighty-three thousand, seven hundred dollars.” Brad tried to act tough, shoving me forward. “We’re with Ian. He’s the owner’s kid…” Sal raised a hand. “I don’t know any Ian. I’m the owner of this restaurant. You ordered the food.” He looked at Brad’s rapidly paling face and smiled slowly. “Pay up.”
🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “537548”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel
Leave a Reply