She Charged Me for Napkins,So I Bankrupted Her Restaurant

"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.