Every morning meeting, whenever Nelson Lambert singled me out, Miles was right there backing him up.
"Steve, you actually have the nerve to eat at a place like this?"
His voice was pitched just right—loud enough for every table nearby to hear.
"This place isn't cheap. You just lost your job. Might want to watch your spending."
I looked up at him. "Not your concern."
He smiled.
"Let me be real with you. Negative one hundred and eight points. First in company history. Getting fired wasn't exactly unfair, was it?"
"Seven years at the company, so what? You're pushing thirty-five, no degree, no technical skills, and you got terminated."
"Go check the job boards. Tell me which company is hiring salesmen over thirty-five."
"My advice? Start thinking about Plan B. Delivering for DoorDash, driving for Uber—at least you won't starve."
He patted me on the shoulder, turned, and walked into the private dining room.
I sat there, fingers white around my chopsticks.
Took a deep breath. Didn't move.
Firing back wouldn't have been hard. Throwing a punch wouldn't have been hard either.
But then I'd become exactly what they wanted me to be—the disgraced ex-employee causing a scene in a restaurant.
Not worth it.
I picked up the glass of water on the table and took a sip. It was cold, all the way down my throat and into my stomach.
Two minutes later, Ray walked in.
He was dressed casually—gray T-shirt, jeans. Looked exactly the same as when he'd worked at the company.
"Sorry, got stuck in traffic."
He waved over a waiter, flipped through the menu, and rattled off a string of dishes without hesitation. Every single one was something we used to order after finishing client visits together.
He handed the menu back to the waiter, leaned back in his chair, and looked at me.
"Steve, I didn't ask you here to beat around the bush. Let me get straight to it."
He pulled his phone from his pocket, swiped a few times, and turned the screen toward me.
It was a photo of a business license.
Horizon Supply Chain Management Co. The name in the legal representative field was Ray Fox.
"This is my company. Five hundred thousand in registered capital, fully paid in."
"Office space is already leased. Four thousand square feet in the Commerce District."
"Organizational structure is mostly set. The one thing I'm missing is someone to run the sales operation."
"I want you to be my Business Director."
I froze.
"Ray, you—"
"Don't answer yet. Hear me out." He held up three fingers. "First, your old base salary was twelve hundred a month. I'm giving you twenty-four hundred."
"Second, commission is fifteen percent of gross margin. Any deal you personally close gets an extra five percent on top."
"Third, equity. Ten percent of the company. Registered with the state, written into the articles of incorporation."
"Not options. Not profit-sharing rights. Actual shares."
I didn't speak.
A good ten seconds passed before I finally opened my mouth. "Where did you get this kind of money?"
Ray smiled.
"My dad's in real estate. Foxworth Holdings. Ever heard of it?"
Of course I'd heard of it.
Foxworth Holdings was one of the largest private real estate developers in the state.
Back when Ray worked at the company, he'd driven a beat-up Volkswagen every day, ate in the cafeteria at lunch.
Who would have guessed he was the heir to Foxworth Holdings.
I laughed. "You son of a gun. You really kept that under wraps."
"I wasn't hiding anything." He shrugged. "My dad wanted me to get some real-world experience. Start from the ground up."
"You saw what Nelson Lambert's system was like. His reviews graded attendance, not performance. His management tracked process, not results."
"I brought it up to Mr. Finch. Didn't make a difference."
"Then I got into it with Lambert, and he made my life hell after that."
