After the company gala wrapped up, I noticed a wine stain on my overcoat and grabbed a pack of tissues from the restaurant's front desk.

I'd barely finished wiping the stain when the owner strolled over with a smile and informed me the tissues would be ten dollars.

I froze.

This restaurant charged more than most places in the area, and the portions and flavor were nothing to write home about.

But it was close to the office. Convenient.

So every time I hosted clients or organized a company dinner, I chose Gourmet Grace.

When I didn't move, the owner's smile thinned.

"Mr. Dickerson, I'm running a small business here."

"A man of your stature surely wouldn't pinch pennies over something this small?"

I laughed, pulled a hundred-dollar bill from my wallet, and set it on the counter.

"Keep the change."

Her face lit up like a slot machine hitting jackpot, and she thanked me three times over.

The next morning, I walked into the office and had my assistant send out a company-wide notice:

"Effective immediately, any reimbursement receipts from Gourmet Grace restaurant—

—will be denied without exception."

……

The gala that evening had been a success.

As the night wound down, Neville James, the company's financial director, approached with the bill, dipping his head slightly.

"Mr. Dickerson, here's the total for tonight. If you'd like to review it."

I lifted my teacup, took a slow sip, and let my gaze drift to the bolded figure at the bottom of the page:

$138,044.

Roughly twenty thousand more than last year.

A flicker of that's steep crossed my mind—but only a flicker.

It was the end of the year, and the company had posted record numbers. You don't skimp on appearances when you've earned the right to celebrate.

Besides, we'd held the annual gala here for thirteen years. The price crept up every time. I was used to it.

"Looks fine."

I didn't bother reviewing the line items. I drew a pen from the inside pocket of my suit jacket and signed my name in the lower right corner with a clean, decisive stroke.

"Settle it tonight. Cash."

I handed the bill back to Neville.

He nodded and strode off toward the restaurant manager waiting just outside the private dining room doors.

The gala finally wound to a close.

I stood beneath the gilded awning of Gourmet Grace's entrance, wearing the kind of polished smile the occasion demanded, and said goodbye to every important client one by one.

After the last guest's car pulled away, I raised my hand to signal my driver—and my fingertips brushed something cold and damp that had no business being there.

I glanced down. There, on the lower front panel of my charcoal cashmere overcoat, was a dark crimson stain.

Red wine. Probably splashed during one of the many toasts over dinner.

I frowned and looked up. Behind the front desk stood a young woman in the restaurant's uniform. I didn't recognize her—new hire, most likely.

"Excuse me." I walked over and gestured toward my coat. "Could I get some tissues? Thanks."

The girl behind the desk responded right away. "Of course, sir. One moment."

She pulled an unopened pack of white tissues from beneath the counter, tore the plastic wrapper with practiced efficiency, drew out a thick stack, and came around the desk to hand them to me.

I thanked her, dabbed the stain as best I could, crumpled the soiled tissues into a ball, and tossed them in the trash.

I was turning to leave when a familiar voice, laced with warmth, drifted from just behind me.

"Mr. Dickerson—heading out already?"

Gloria Hayworth. Owner of Gourmet Grace.

She wore a dark plum brocade cheongsam with a cashmere shawl draped over her shoulders. Her hair was swept up without a strand out of place, and a designer handbag dangled from the crook of her arm.

I stopped and gave her a courteous nod. "All taken care of. Thanks again for another great year."

"Oh, Mr. Dickerson, you're too kind. We should be thanking you for your loyalty all these years."

Gloria glided closer, her gaze drifting—casually, as if by accident—across the front desk counter before settling, with perfect naturalness, on the opened pack of tissues.

Then, in that same effusive tone, she said the words that made me certain I'd misheard:

"Mr. Dickerson, this pack of tissues—would you like to pay cash or scan the code? Ten dollars."

I froze on the spot.

Thirteen years of running my company, and every single year, I'd held our annual company gala at Gourmet Grace. Client dinners. Team celebrations. Company banquets.

Without fail.

From the days when my entire staff was seven or eight people, to now, when we were over a hundred strong.

From the days when ordering meant agonizing over the budget, to tonight—signing a $138,000 check without batting an eye.

How much I'd spent here each year, exactly? I'd never bothered to add it up.

But Neville had mentioned it once. Between all the client entertainment and company events over the course of a year, the total came to well over a million dollars. Easily.

And I had a standing rule for our finance department: every bill from Gourmet Grace was to be settled on the spot. No outstanding balances. Always cash.

I'd watched this place grow—no, I'd funded its growth with cold, hard cash—from a cramped little hole-in-the-wall into what it was today: a sprawling restaurant occupying an entire floor, decked out in lavish décor.

Their prices were a good ten to twenty percent higher than comparable places in the area.

The food? Honestly, it had always been... adequate.

Not bad. But nowhere near remarkable.

The reason I'd kept coming back—in the early days, it was convenience and a sliver of loyalty from when times were lean. Later, it was more about the service being reliable and consistent. One less thing to think about.

And of course, "close to the office" had always been reason number one. Time was money too.

Images flickered through my mind, unbidden.

Thirteen years ago. A cramped little restaurant. A young owner carrying steaming dishes to the table, her smile simple and earnest.

Eight years ago. The first expansion. She'd personally reserved the best private room for me. During the toast, she'd said, "Without loyal customers like you, Mr. Dickerson, I wouldn't be where I am today."

Five years ago. The restaurant took over the entire floor. The grand opening was a spectacular affair. She'd glided among her guests, every inch the successful businesswoman. When she clinked glasses with me, the words were still about gratitude.

Only by then, the gratitude sounded more like a social formality.

Thirteen years of spending here. If you stacked all that money up, it could probably buy a mountain of tissue packs.

No—it could probably buy several tissue factories.

And just minutes ago, I'd had Neville, my financial director, personally settle tonight's bill. One hundred thirty-eight thousand and forty-four dollars. Down to the cent.

Now here she stood before me—Gloria, in an elegant cheongsam, wearing her most gracious smile.

Over a pack of tissues that cost a dollar or two at most.

She was asking me—the "valued patron," the "big boss" she'd spent thirteen years professing gratitude to—

For ten dollars.

A feeling of utter absurdity crept over me, slow and heavy.

I wasn't angry. Strangely, there wasn't even a flicker of heat. Just something cool and hollow settling in my chest, along with an overwhelming sense of the ridiculous.

She watched me stand there, motionless, and her warm smile dimmed a shade.

"Mr. Dickerson, I'm running a small business here. Everything has a cost."

"A man of your stature—your company doing so well—surely you're not going to haggle with us over a little thing like this?"

Even Lily, the receptionist, couldn't hold back. She spoke up timidly. "Ma'am, it's just a pack of tissues. Let it go."

Gloria's expression hardened instantly.

"Just a pack of tissues? Just?"

"Ten dollars isn't money? You've been here, what, a few days, and you're already taking the customer's side over mine?"

"Do you have any idea how tough the market is right now? Do you have the first clue how hard it is to keep a business afloat?"

"Utilities, rent, payroll—every single one of those costs money. Every. Single. One."

Her voice climbed with each word. She stepped forward, one red-lacquered fingernail jabbing the air, inches from the girl's face.

"You think a pack of napkins isn't worth anything? Think I'm being petty?"

"Fine. That ten dollars is coming out of your paycheck this month!"

"Maybe that'll teach you a lesson about what things cost—and how hard it is to earn a dollar!"

The girl flinched under the verbal assault, her whole body trembling. Her eyes reddened instantly. Her lips quivered as if she wanted to say something in her defense, but in the end, she just lowered her head. She bit down hard on her lower lip, tears pooling in her eyes, refusing to let them fall.

I watched the whole thing, and something inside me went cold.

I pulled a hundred-dollar bill from my wallet and held it out to Gloria.

"Here. Keep the change."

Her tirade cut off mid-breath.

She turned to face me, reassembling that smile of hers—even more effusive than before. She snatched the bill with practiced speed, her fingertips giving it a quick, expert rub.

"Oh, Mr. Dickerson! You're too generous! You really shouldn't have..."

"Thank you so much! You're such a class act! Next time you come in, I'll have the kitchen set aside the freshest ingredients just for you—"

I'd already stopped listening.

That greasy smile of hers, glistening under the neon lights, turned my stomach in ways I couldn't put into words.

I straightened the front of my coat, let my gaze pass over the girl—still standing with her head bowed—then settled it on Gloria's beaming face. When I spoke, I chose my words carefully.

"Gloria, the secret to good business is thinking long-term."

"You'd do well to broaden your horizons."

She clearly didn't understand—or didn't care. She took it as polite small talk and nodded eagerly.

"Yes, yes, absolutely! You're so right, Mr. Dickerson. Long-term! Long-term!"

The next day, back at the office, I called my secretary in and gave her a simple instruction.

"Send out an internal memo. Effective immediately, any company-expensed meals or client entertainment involving Gourmet Grace will not be approved for reimbursement."

She froze, blinked, and instinctively double-checked. "Mr. Dickerson, you mean... Gourmet Grace? All reimbursements? Denied?"

Her surprise was understandable. For thirteen years, that restaurant had practically been our unofficial company cafeteria—especially for executive dinners and the annual company gala. It had never changed.

"That's right." I picked up my freshly brewed coffee. "Send it out."

The memo went out via internal email. At first, nothing happened.

But within half a day, the ripples started spreading beneath the surface.

That afternoon, I walked past the break room and caught fragments of conversation drifting through the doorway.

"...Is this for real? We don't have to go to Gourmet Grace anymore?"

"The memo's already out. You think it's fake? Mr. Dickerson signed off on it himself."

"About damn time!" someone chimed in, their voice carrying the weight of long-suppressed frustration. "Last year our department dinner was there. We ordered a fish—clearly not fresh. We mentioned it once, and the owner came over and spent twenty minutes going on about how expensive her suppliers were and how hard sourcing was. Then she gave us a two-percent discount like she was doing us some massive favor."

"You got off easy," another woman's voice joined in. "Last time we were entertaining a client—Mr. Li—he casually mentioned that the complimentary peanuts were good and asked for another plate."

"Guess what? When the bill came, that plate of peanuts was twenty-eight dollars!"

"We asked the waitress, and she hemmed and hawed. Then the owner came over and said they were premium amber-glazed peanuts—high cost."

"Twenty-eight bucks for a plate of peanuts! Highway robbery!"

"It's not just the food prices," an old-timer from accounting couldn't help piling on. "Getting invoices from them was a nightmare. Always delayed, always wrong. It'd hold up the whole reimbursement process. Drove everyone crazy."