Seafood Feast on My Tab? Think Again

Right in the middle of the workday, my coworker, Stanley Graham, suddenly jumps up and slaps me on the shoulder. "Next week is Mr. Todd's birthday. Since your family runs a seafood restaurant, I'll tell you what—I'll chip in 99 bucks to treat the whole department at your place to celebrate!" He starts counting dishes on his fingers. "We need lobster and king crab. The fish has to be a fresh-killed red snapper. Don't skimp on the appetizers, and keep the beer and sodas flowing. Oh, and keep an eye on the shellfish. Mr. Todd has gout. Do a good job. Don't embarrass our department." He nudges me with a smirk. "When Mr. Todd walks away happy, he'll probably throw a massive bonus your way. You'll be laughing all the way to the bank. You make money, you get the credit, and the boss is happy. Dylan, you seriously owe me one." I stare at him, completely baffled. My family owns a small diner. Where on earth are we getting seafood from? The moment I flatly refuse, Stanley rolls his eyes and walks off. That night, a sign-up list pops up in the company group chat. "Mr. Todd's birthday is this Saturday! I'm treating everyone to a seafood feast. Eat as much as you want, and you can bring your family too. Add your name to the list if you're in!" The chat immediately erupts into cheers. In less than ten minutes, over 50 people sign up. "My dad's never even had lobster. Thanks to Stanley, he finally gets to experience something new!" "My kid loves tuna. Save a few extra portions for him!" Stanley promises everyone everything. After dropping a location pin in the chat, he transfers 99 dollars to me. "Dylan, take the cash. Make sure the ingredients are top-notch. Don't rip off your own coworkers." I take a closer look at the location and smile. It is the high-end seafood restaurant right next to my family's diner. The owner is a reformed gangster with tattoos climbing all the way up to his jaw. The last guy who tried to walk out on a bill there still can't get out of bed. Chapter 1 "My family doesn't own the seafood restaurant. We own the small diner next door. You guys got it wrong." The moment I hit send, the group chat went dead silent for a couple of seconds. Then, my coworker, Stanley Graham, dropped a video into the chat. In the clip, I walked into the seafood place. The hostess saw me and smiled, "Hey Dylan, welcome back. What do you feel like eating today?" Stanley sent a string of question marks. "You call this 'not your restaurant'? If it isn't, why did she say 'welcome back' and ask what you wanted to eat? "Look, Dylan, nobody's trying to freeload off you. I'm paying to support your business, and you're putting on airs and making excuses? That's pretty uncool." My heart sank. Someone had secretly filmed me after work yesterday. Just as I started typing an explanation, Hector Weaver, who usually joked around with me, chimed in first. "Come on, Dylan. Is this really necessary? Nobody's after your money." "Exactly. It's not like we can't afford seafood. The way you're being so secretive is pretty disgusting." The HR guys spammed thumbs-down emojis. "Seafood is literally everywhere now. Stop treating it like it's some rare treasure." Someone from the marketing department jumped right in. "We're just trying to support your place and draw a crowd. Without us hyping it up, it'd be so dead in there that no one would even walk through the door." "I was even going to film a TikTok review and give you a free promo. That marketing is worth way more than a meal. You should be glad I didn't charge you an ad fee." "Look at the big picture. Stop obsessing over pennies. You'll get further in life if you're a bit more generous." As I stared at my screen, my fingers trembled. My family was just neighbors with Charles Marsh, the restaurant owner. Charles was a nice guy who occasionally invited me over for a meal. How did that turn into me owning the restaurant? Chapter 2 After taking a deep breath, I aggressively tapped my screen. "Look, I'm just neighbors with the owner next door. He's a nice guy and invites me over for dinner sometimes. "I'm telling the truth. But if you guys don't mind, we can have the party at my family's diner. I can ask my mom to buy some fresh seafood from the market. She's an amazing cook, and I promise you won't be disappointed." After I hit send, the group chat fell dead silent again. A long moment passed before someone finally replied, "That greasy diner next door? Gross. If we're going there, count me out for Saturday." "Same here." Stanley immediately chimed in, tagging everyone. "Don't worry, guys. We're going to the place in the dropped pin I sent earlier. There's no mistake. See you all Saturday." The chat erupted instantly. "@Dylan, I want lobster crudo. Slice it thin." "Steamed king crab for me. Don't crack the legs too much." "My kid only eats fatty tuna belly. Make sure you prepare extra portions." A male colleague sent a voice note. "Stanley, you're the man. My kid wants to say thank you." Right after, a child's high-pitched voice piped up, saying thank you. The chat filled with a barrage of messages thanking Stanley. Even our general manager, Landon Todd, who had been completely silent until now, popped up with a row of thumbs-up emojis. "Stanley's team spirit sets a great example for the whole company. He's definitely the top candidate for Employee of the Year." Stanley replied instantly with a laughing emoji. "Just doing my part." A second later, a direct message from him popped up. "Dylan Baxter, be smart. Don't ruin Mr. Todd's birthday party. It won't look good on you. If you think it's not enough money, I'll throw in another 100 dollars." He sent a transfer for 100 bucks. "199 dollars for a full meal. You're easily pocketing 150 dollars in profit. You happy now? Making money off your coworkers like this? You're a real bloodsucker." I laughed out of sheer frustration. 199 dollars for over 50 people to have an all-you-can-eat seafood feast, with explicit demands for lobster and king crab. And he thought I was making 150 bucks in profit? Ignoring him, I opened my chat with Landon. I took clear photos of our business license and the storefront sign that read "Baxter Diner" and sent them over. "Mr. Todd, I'm really not trying to be difficult. That seafood restaurant honestly doesn't belong to my family. We just run a small diner. This whole thing is a complete misunderstanding, and I can't promise anything. I'd really appreciate it if you could clarify things in the group chat for me." The message was marked as read a second after I sent it. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Even after half an hour, Landon never replied. When I clicked back into the work group chat, hundreds of new messages had piled up. Stanley's name was right at the top, indicating he was typing. "Oh, by the way everyone, I forgot to mention. Dylan's restaurant is giving out free seafood gift bags to everyone when we leave. Don't forget to grab yours!" The group chat exploded. "Gift bags too? I want scallops, sea cucumber, and smoked salmon!" "All six of us from my family are coming. Do we get six bags?" "Can I swap the sea cucumber for premium wild caviar? My wife just had a baby and needs the premium stuff." "I went to a seafood place before, and a lobster prepared three ways cost me 380 dollars—total ripoff. Dylan's place is much more reasonable. Local spots really have the best price." Chapter 3 Someone tagged me in the group chat. "Dylan, my wife is allergic to shrimp, so make sure you steam a whole grouper just for her. Your family's loaded anyway. A single fish is nothing to you." Another message popped up right after. "My dad has gout and can't eat shellfish. Prepare a bowl of sea cucumber millet risotto for him. Make sure it's made to order. Don't try to fool us with overnight leftovers." I scoffed. Free food and drinks weren't enough. Now they were treating me like their personal servant? I didn't reply to a single message. The next morning, I went straight to Landon's office. He was sitting on the couch sipping coffee. I got right to the point. "Mr. Todd, did you see the messages I sent you yesterday? That seafood restaurant really isn't mine—" Landon's expression instantly darkened, and he set his cup down with a sharp clink. "Dylan, your attitude is a serious problem." My heart sank. Frowning, he tapped the desk forcefully with his finger. "Do you honestly think I care that much about celebrating my birthday? Do you think I want a seafood dinner very badly? I'm doing this for the company!" He slapped the desk, looking thoroughly disappointed. "Stanley is a senior employee. He's paying out of his own pocket and doing all the prep work to organize a team-building event. And for what? To give a new hire like you a chance to shine in front of me! "Instead of being grateful, you're standing here spinning lies. It's incredibly disappointing." I balled my hands into fists. My voice rose despite myself. "I'm not lying—" He cut me off with a wave of his hand. "Enough. Teamwork is a massive component of your probation review. Go back to your desk and think about that." With that, he pushed me out and slammed the door shut behind me. The moment I sat back down at my cubicle, a shadow loomed over me. Stanley stood there with his arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips. "Dylan, you're the new guy here. Don't take things so seriously. Sometimes you just gotta take one for the team. It's just a seafood dinner. Keep the boss happy, and your permanent contract is practically a done deal." He offered his advice with mock earnestness. "When I first started, I spent a whole year catering to the senior staff hand and foot. I didn't even complain." I said nothing, keeping my head down as I began packing up my things. Stanley's expression shifted. "What do you think you're doing?" "I'm quitting." Several coworkers looked up at the same time. Stanley blinked, and his voice climbed an octave. "You're quitting? Over a single dinner?" He started shouting for the whole office to hear. "Hey everyone, listen to this! Young people these days are so fragile. We ask to have a meal at his place, and he acts like it's the end of the world, like we're bullying him or something!" The surrounding coworkers sneered. "Who does he think he's threatening with a resignation? If you're gonna leave, just go. You haven't even passed probation yet. Stop acting like you're irreplaceable." "Drop the act. Just say it if you want more money. Playing this card is pathetic." Ignoring them, I walked back to Landon's office and handed him my resignation letter. Landon slapped it straight onto the floor without looking up. "Wait for approval." I opened my mouth to speak, but he slammed his desk impatiently. "This is a company, not your house. You don't get to just come and go as you please! Wait for approval!" I stared at him silently for two seconds, then turned and walked out. Back at my desk, Stanley mocked me. "Thought you were quitting? Why are you still here?" Jeers echoed around the room. "What a drama king, acting for an audience. Honestly, Stanley, just forget it. He's acting like we're asking for his life when we just want to eat at his place," someone chimed in sarcastically. Stanley let out a cold laugh. "Oh, I'm absolutely eating that dinner!" He glared at me viciously. "Dylan, you better wise up and stop making everyone angry, or no one's going to save you when things go south!" I looked down at my phone and opened my chat with Charles. "Charles, I need to ask you for a favor." Chapter 4 The next day was Saturday. Around noon, my front door was suddenly pounded on with brutal force. "Dylan! Open up!" Stanley's booming voice cut straight through the door. "We're here to pick you up! Dylan!" The pounding turned into heavy fist thuds, making the entire hallway vibrate. A next-door neighbor poked their head out to see what the commotion was. Stanley quickly explained, "We're Dylan's coworkers, just picking him up for lunch." When he turned back to the door, his smile turned malicious. "Dylan, your grandma is still at that nursing home, right? If you don't open this door right now, we're going to pay her a visit!" A surge of fury rushed through me. I yanked the door open, but before I could utter a word, a hand aggressively gripped my collar. "What took you so long?" Stanley had an incredibly strong grip. Without another word, he began dragging me toward the elevator. Two other male coworkers flanked me, pinning my arms so I couldn't break free. "Dylan, you're the star of the dinner today. We can't have the party without you!" I stumbled blindly as they dragged me down the stairs. My neck stung from the rough handling. Downstairs, a dozen coworkers were waiting. When they saw me, they rolled their eyes. "Wow, some people aren't even permanent staff yet, yet they act like they're above the boss!" "Everyone's waiting on you. Don't you feel embarrassed?" I was shoved into a car and driven straight to the restaurant entrance. Stanley slammed me down into a chair, flipped open the menu, and began rattling off orders to the waiter. "Lobster, five per table. King crab prepared three ways. Fresh red snapper. Double portions of thick-cut fatty tuna belly…" With every dish he ordered, he shot a glance my way. "Dylan, you won't mind, right? We're all colleagues here, not strangers." He added 12 more abalones to the order. "It's not every day Mr. Todd celebrates a birthday. We can't skimp out. You don't have an issue with that, do you?" I remained silent, but the guy sitting next to me, David Perry, chuckled loudly. "Look at Dylan's face. He clearly doesn't care about this little bit of money. Let's not try to save it for him." After that, Stanley ordered practically every single item on the menu. The tables were covered with food, with barely any space left. Once he finished ordering, he looked at me smugly. "Dylan, why so quiet? You're not mad, are you?" Landon tapped his fingers on the table. "Dylan, show some team spirit. What's with that look?" With that, he was the first to pick up his fork. "Let's eat, everyone! A company isn't run by an intern's mood!" The entire group dug in like vultures. Halfway through the meal, people were spitting out the tuna after a couple of bites, kids were throwing sea cucumbers around like toys, and a few guys were splashing expensive whiskey onto the floor just to liven things up. Everyone looked at me with smug satisfaction. "Dylan, surely you're not regretting it now?" "Why would he regret it? Stanley already paid him. He's making a killing on this." "True." By the end, everyone was slumped over in their chairs, completely stuffed. Stanley told the waiters to start packing the gift bags. Each person walked away clutching three or four heavy bags, grinning from ear to ear. "My family doesn't even eat this well on Christmas. Dylan, your family's place is incredibly generous. We're making this the official spot for all company dinners from now on!" Right then, a waiter walked in holding a lengthy receipt. Stanley's expression shifted slightly. Without a second thought, he shoved me forward. "Dylan, I already transferred you the money, so go ahead and settle the bill. We'll head out first." He spoke while already making a run for the exit, and the others instantly followed his lead. The next second, the doorway of the private dining room was completely blocked by a dozen bald, muscular men wearing black workwear. The man leading them had arms thicker than Stanley's thighs, with tattoos climbing all the way up his neck. His gaze swept across the room, heavy with menace. "Six tables. 36 lobsters, 25 king crabs, 15 abalones, 12 red snappers, 18 thick-cut fatty tuna bellies, 24 bottles of whiskey, and 53 gift baskets of caviar, scallops, and sea cucumber. Your total comes to 83,700 dollars." Stanley tried desperately to maintain his composure while pushing me toward the front of the group. "We're Dylan's coworkers. You can talk to him—" The man raised a hand, cutting him off. "I don't know any Dylan. I own this place. And you're the one who placed the order." He looked at Stanley's rapidly paling face and let out a slow smile. "Now, pay up."