Everyone said they were done eating.
I called the waiter over and asked for a large bowl, which I set down in front of Fiona.
Then I stood up and scraped the leftovers from every single person's dish into that bowl.
It filled up fast.
Fiona stared at me, confused.
I smiled at her. "Go ahead. Eat. You hate wasting food, right? So finish what your colleagues left behind."
The air pressure in the private dining room plummeted.
Fiona's expression darkened. "Honey, I'm already full."
"You're not leaving this room until that bowl is empty."
Job shot to his feet. "Mr. Henson, you've spent three years as a stay-at-home husband, never once checking a price tag, all because Director Prescott bankrolls your entire life."
"And now you're humiliating her over something this petty? You're out of line!"
I looked at his flushed little face and laughed.
"Go on, sweetheart. Eat up. You had no problem finishing Job's leftovers, so why the sudden pickiness about everyone else's? That's a bit of a double standard, don't you think?"
Fiona glanced at me, then down at the heaping bowl of scraps.
She hesitated for a moment, but eventually picked up her chopsticks and started shoveling food into her mouth.
Job let out a shrill cry. "Director Prescott, stop! You're going to wreck your stomach!"
"Why are you listening to him? He's a man who doesn't earn a single dime. What gives him the right to order you around?"
He snatched the chopsticks right out of Fiona's hand. "Stop eating. If he doesn't care about you, I do!"
"You care an awful lot about another man's wife," I said. "If you're so concerned, eat it for her."
"I have a small appetite. I can't possibly finish that. You're just doing this to be difficult."
"Then shut your mouth."
I grabbed a fresh pair of chopsticks and handed them to Fiona. "Eat. You love eating so much, don't you?"
Fiona took them and kept forcing food into her mouth, barely able to swallow. She gagged with every bite.
Finally, she couldn't take it anymore. She doubled over and threw up.
Job burst into tears, rubbing her back with one hand while jabbing a finger at me with the other.
"You don't deserve to be Director Prescott's husband! You're no help to her whatsoever. All you do is throw tantrums and make her life miserable!"
"I don't deserve her? And you do? Ready to take my place already?"
"Director Prescott and I have a perfectly professional working relationship. Don't you dare slander us!"
"Prove it. Why don't you resign?"
"Why should I resign? I'm doing a great job here."
"You're fired."
Job froze. Then his face crumpled into a look of barely contained tears, his voice trembling and drawn out in a pitiful whine.
"Director Prescott..."
Fiona, who had never once raised her voice at me, slammed her palm on the table and shot to her feet. "Rolf, you have no authority to fire my employees!"
I walked straight up to Job and slapped him across the face. Twice.
"Pathetic little homewrecker."
"You're right. I hold no title at this company, so I can't fire him. But as your husband, I have every right to slap him."
Fiona immediately pulled the sobbing Job into her arms. "Rolf, you've gone too far!"
Perhaps before, when I'd caught her eating Job's leftovers, she'd still felt a shred of guilt toward me.
Now, that shred was gone.
"This is what happens when I spoil you too much. You think you can do whatever you want!"
"As punishment, I'm cutting off every single one of your cards!"
Job, who had been weeping just seconds ago, heard the words every single one of your cards and the corners of his mouth curled up uncontrollably.
"That seems a bit harsh, Director Prescott. After all, Mr. Henson is the one hosting tonight's dinner. If you cancel all his cards, how's he supposed to pay the bill?"
"A meal like this has to run well over a thousand dollars. That's enough for a criminal charge. If Mr. Henson can't settle up, the police might just haul him away."
