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."
