The department had just closed a big deal, and the director came strolling over to my desk.

"Cece," he said. "Tonight's celebration dinner is at your family's revolving restaurant. We'll buy out the place. Consider it your chance to shine, treating everyone."

"Don't worry, I won't let you eat the cost. I'll have finance cut you a two-hundred-dollar bonus afterward. See? I look out for you, don't I?"

At my family's restaurant, a single table started at two thousand.

A two-hundred-dollar bonus, and he wanted to freeload a hundred-thousand-dollar buyout?

I smiled and turned him down.

"Mr. Whitney, the restaurant belongs to my mother. It's not my call. Besides, the place is already booked tonight."

He didn't even acknowledge me. He just announced it.

"Six o'clock tonight, everyone heads to the Skyline Revolving Restaurant for dinner. Bring your families. It's all on the house!"

The room broke into cheers, a chorus of how mighty Mr. Whitney was, how generous Mr. Whitney was.

I looked at Oliver Whitney's face, that what-are-you-going-to-do-about-it expression.

And I smiled.

He wanted to freeload off my family's restaurant to buy himself a reputation?

Then let him find out what real free meals taste like. The kind they serve in prison.

...

It was always like this. I'd been at this company less than six months, and ever since he'd learned my family ran a revolving restaurant, Oliver had eaten and drunk on my tab no fewer than ten times, every visit running over two thousand.

Family gatherings, class reunions, treating company higher-ups to dinner, all of it at my family's restaurant.

He didn't even spare his client dinners, and on the way out he'd demand a padded receipt for more than he'd spent.

The first couple of times, he at least managed a few words of thanks.

After that, not one kind word, and the way he looked at my mother had the word "charity" written all over it.

As if his freeloading were some enormous favor he was doing us.

Oliver looked down at me, his eyes full of crushing, high-handed certainty.

As if I were an ant he could grind underfoot whenever he pleased.

"Cecily Joyner, holding the company dinner at your restaurant is giving you face. We're not even charging you a promotion fee, so count yourself lucky and quit being so ungrateful!"

"Right, Cecily, the director only thought of you for this. Don't go biting the hand. Jordan's family runs a restaurant too, you know. When have you ever seen the director hold a dinner there?"

That was Aileen Dickerson talking, Oliver's number-one lackey, the one who could flatter better than anyone, who'd swear his every fart smelled sweet.

What Jordan's family ran wasn't exactly a restaurant. It was a hole-in-the-wall diner on the corner.

That level of place, Oliver wouldn't lower himself to.

The rest of the department fell over themselves to pile on.

"That's right. A few dozen of us, plus families, that's over a hundred people, free advertising. You couldn't buy that kind of exposure, Cecily. You should be counting your blessings."

"And we're only coming out of respect for you anyway. Aren't all the dishes the same anyway? Cecily, you need to learn some gratitude!"

Showing support, they called it. But which time had any of them paid?

The small stuff, my mother had swallowed it all, as long as my work went smoothly and I got along with my coworkers.

But this time it was the whole department, families included, starting at a hundred thousand. I couldn't swallow that.

I was about to open my mouth to refuse when Oliver spoke up.

"Cece, that Maine lobster from last time was excellent. Get everyone a portion this round. And the Australian A5 Wagyu."

He turned to the others and swept a hand through the air.

"Everybody, call out whatever you want right now. Let Cece write it down. Don't worry about the price, just eat your fill."

The office erupted.

"Amazing! I hereby declare Mr. Whitney the most generous director, no contest... I want Gillardeau oysters."

"I want the imported snow crab legs, plus the black truffle braised sea cucumber."

"And the pan-seared foie gras, a fine-dining must. Dessert has to be fish maw, paired with an '82 Bordeaux. Perfect."

They really had the nerve to order.

Maine lobster ran four hundred dollars a pound. One serving each, and that was four hundred a head right there.

A5 Wagyu was three hundred a piece, Gillardeau oysters fifty apiece, snow crab legs four hundred a pound.

And they wanted to wash it all down with an '82 Bordeaux. A single bottle topped forty grand.

This wasn't freeloading. This was a deliberate run to eat my family's restaurant into the ground.

And those mouths kept opening and closing, naming those dishes as easily as if they were ordering fried rice.

I looked at all those excited, greedy faces, and something in me sank all the way down.

I spoke, cold: "Mr. Whitney, the restaurant belongs to my mother. I have no authority to host anyone. And like I already said, the place is fully booked tonight."

Oliver's expression shifted. "Tell whoever booked it to pick another time. Our celebration is more important."

"Not possible. The deposit's already been paid. It can't be changed."

"It can and it will. Are you the director, or am I?"

The breath caught in my chest. I stared at him, cold.

"Fine. The penalty for breaking the reservation is two hundred grand, and you'll cover it. The hundred-grand booking deposit—wire it now."

The second the words left my mouth, the noise stopped dead.

Every coworker turned to look at me, baffled, stunned, like I was some kind of freak.

Oliver's face changed in an instant.

"Cecily Joyner, have I been too good to you? Do you even hear yourself? You're telling me to pay? Don't forget, I'm your director. Think about who signs your paycheck."

I almost laughed from sheer anger.

Five thousand dollars a month in salary, and one meal would eat up five, six hundred thousand of mine.

Ten years of working for free, and still letting them treat my family's restaurant like their own cafeteria.

I met his eyes without flinching.

"Not for much longer."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I said, I quit."

I pulled off my badge and threw it on the table.

"I'm done!"

The air froze. Oliver's face went a livid gray.

A few seconds of silence, then Aileen was the first to leap up, shrieking.

"Cecily, are you out of your mind? Is that any way to talk to the director? It's just one meal at your family's place. You're really going to quit over that?"

Zane Smith piled on right behind her.

"Right, your family's loaded. What's wrong with treating everyone to one meal? Besides, the restaurant's yours—you'd only be out the cost of the ingredients, how much could that be? You're being so cheap."

"Cecily, we're all coworkers here. Talking like this is just disrespectful. A celebration's a good thing. You're being a real killjoy."

"Exactly. I already called and told my mom—she's never had fine dining in her life. My whole family knows now. Cecily, you can't make me look bad."

I stared, wide-eyed, sure my ears had to be malfunctioning.

Every single word of it spelled out one thing: they were broke leeches with the nerve to act entitled about it.

I drew a deep breath and spoke, cold.

"Who eats a five-hundred-thousand-dollar meal? Is having money a crime in my family? Does that mean we deserve to be mooched off, squeezed dry, played for fools?"

"That restaurant is my parents' blood and sweat. It didn't fall out of the sky. We owe none of you a free dinner!"

Oliver slammed the table so hard my brand-new mug jumped off and shattered on the floor.

"Cecily Joyner, you've gone too far! No team spirit at all. We gave you this chance because the company values you, because we wanted to give you a better future. Don't make us do this the hard way!"

"Take it back, and I'll pretend I never heard it. Call your mother, set up the celebration properly tonight. I will not approve your resignation."

My eyes went hot and red with anger.

"On what grounds? This is my choice—"

"On the grounds that I'm your direct supervisor! You quit, and I'll have finance audit you, have HR pull your time records. I don't believe for a second you've never padded an expense report or clocked in late."

"Leave this company, and don't bother applying anywhere else. Your background check report? I write whatever I want on it."

A naked threat.

Open bullying.

A humiliation meant to cut a person down to nothing.

I was shaking all over, biting down hard enough to taste blood without even noticing.

I shot to my feet, ready to fight back, and Jordan Lambert grabbed my arm from behind and held on tight.

I turned. Jordan shook his head at me.

The fury that had climbed into my throat got swallowed back down.

Oliver thought I'd caved. He let out a cold, arrogant little laugh.

"That's more like it. Let Jordan teach you what it means to read the room and play smart."

"You handle tonight's celebration dinner to my satisfaction, and what happened just now never happened. From here on, there's still a place for you in this department."

"Don't be so petty, kid. Every resource you put in now is a stepping stone to your promotion. Relax. With me looking out for you, you won't lose out."

It was his usual trick.

A slap, then a sweet little reward, then a pie in the sky that would never come true, just to keep me playing the fool.

He didn't wait for me to answer. Oliver turned on his heel and strode off, arrogant as ever.

The coworkers shot me looks of disgust and contempt, then happily went off to plan tonight's celebration dinner.

Jordan was the only employee who hadn't reeled off a list of dishes, and the only one who hadn't joined in the sneering.

He pulled me into the stairwell and let out a helpless sigh.

"Cece, Oliver's a lowlife, plain and simple. My wife scrapes by running a little diner, and every time we work late he has me make boxed lunches for everyone, never pays a cent. He gets the credit, I cover the food. The minute I bring up money, he makes my life hell. All these years he's dangled raises and promotions, and I'm still a junior clerk who hasn't seen a dime more."

"I've tried to quit too. Same threats, same speech. You think anybody in sales has expense reports without a single error? At my age, if I leave with a stain on my record, I'll never find another job. I just have to take it."

It surged through me like a tide, and my voice came out wrong.

"Jordan, but my meal isn't some small amount…"

"I know. Go talk to Mr. Whitney, plead poverty, get them to cut down on the expensive dishes. Just bear it. You're still young. The last thing you want is a stain on your résumé."

My nails dug into my palm. My voice came out steady.

"Jordan, I have to quit this job."

Jordan shook his head, resigned, and turned to go.

"Jordan." I called him back.

He turned.

"Don't go to the dinner tonight."

He blinked, then nodded, and pushed the door open and left.

I called my mom.

"Mom, Oliver's planning to book out our restaurant tonight. No matter what he says, don't agree to it."

She paused. "Tonight's already booked by someone else. Didn't you tell him that?"

"I did…"

I told her the whole thing, and by the end her voice was trembling with anger.

"Cecily, you did the right thing. You can't coddle people like that. Don't you worry, even if the good Lord himself walks in today, it won't work."

"And it's my fault too. I figured he was your boss, so let him eat free, treat it like a gift, make things a little easier for you under him. And he just keeps pushing for more."

"Don't be scared, sweetheart. Just quit and come home. If you can't find work, your mom will take care of you. We're not swallowing that kind of humiliation."

A warm rush went through me, and my nose stung.

"Mom, I'm going to quit. He wants to corner me, and I'm not going to let him off easy."

"Mom, check the cameras. Put security cameras everywhere the blind spots can't reach. Hire twenty strong guards from Five Guards Security, and one more thing…"