Chapter 4Raise My Rent and I'll Raise Hell

"Those of you who have already finished and paid for your meals can come back next week with today's payment records and have one meal on the house. For those still waiting in line, everyone gets a 200-dollar voucher, plus a case of your soda of choice. Kindly leave your details with the front of house. We'll start distributing the compensation tomorrow," I declared.

For a moment, the dining area was silent. Then, in the darkness, someone called out, "But it's not your fault that the power went out, Mr. Connor!"

I replied, "All of you came here to dine at my restaurant today. Regardless of who's responsible for this situation, I can't let you guys pay for your food today."

My finance manager tugged on my sleeve and whispered, "Boss, we'd have to fork out at least 50 thousand dollars to cover the compensation you offered!"

"Just do it. We can't let this matter ruin our reputation," I said without hesitation.

The employees turned on the flashlights on their phones, the beams of white sweeping across the restaurant. They packed up the unfinished food at each table, took down everyone's information for the vouchers, and started carrying out cases of drinks.

Eric brought out every container of ice cream he could find and served it to every table.

"You're a great man, Mr. Connor," someone remarked.

Another one chimed in, "I'm swearing loyalty to this restaurant from now on. I'll keep being a regular no matter where you move to."

A middle-aged man walked up to me. He took out his phone and snapped a picture of the front counter.

"I'll definitely make a social media post about your restaurant. There are hundreds of employees at my factory, you know. From now on, we'll reserve your restaurant for our company dinners."

At 10:00 pm, the news went viral on social media with the caption reading, "The grilled fish restaurant at Millennium Square loses power, but the boss picks up the tab and offers 200-dollar vouchers to customers."

There were over four thousand replies in the comment section.

"A businessman like him deserves to make it rich."

"Can I get the name of the restaurant? I'll head over there this weekend."

"The management of Millennium Square owes everyone an explanation."

"The barbecue restaurant right next door still had power. Only the grilled fish restaurant was pitch black. It's pretty obvious who's being targeted."

A few food content creators sent me a private message, offering to make a post about my restaurant for free.

It probably never occurred to Walt that cutting off my power would give me the most publicity I'd ever received in the six years I'd been running the restaurant.

But I didn't care about that.

At 11:00 pm that night, the renovation crew arrived at the basement of Avant Plaza.

On the dot at midnight, the truck from the moving company pulled into Millennium Square's loading bay.

Zeke Anderson, the security guard on duty, had known me for six years, too. He stuck his head out of the booth and checked the license plate number before looking at me. Then, without a word, he lifted the barrier.

Everything from the custom grills, the freezer unit, and the proprietary machines I created was all packed up. I didn't leave a single thing behind.

The entire kitchen team showed up as well. All 12 of them assembled, not a single one taking the day off or asking why we were moving in the middle of the night.

It was 4:00 am when the final box was loaded onto the truck.

The entire kitchen was empty. Once the stoves were removed, a stain from six years ago could be seen on the floor tiles. Sauce and oil had seeped into the cracks between the tiles. No amount of cleaning could remove the marks.

It'd been left there on the first day the restaurant opened, when Lionel spilled the first batch of sauce we were making.

I took out the check for this month's rent from my wallet—the full amount and not a cent more. I placed it inside the drawer built into the front counter, leaving a note on top of it.

"I don't need you to turn the air conditioning back on anymore, Mr. Sutton."

The truck from the moving company drove off, and the rest of us followed in our cars behind. Through the rearview mirror, I saw the logo for Millennium Square gradually getting smaller.

Grabbing my phone, I sent Walt one final message.

"I'm not signing the lease."

Then I blocked him.

At 6:00 am, down in the basement level of Avant Plaza, I stood inside the empty storefront. The signboard hadn't even been put up yet, but the lights were already on.

My staff sat on the floor, digging into some sandwiches. Eric enthused over how the kitchen in the new place was twice as big as the old one.

Lionel was off in the corner, envisioning where to put the freezer unit and the grills. He also gestured toward the ceiling to map out the path for the ventilation ducts.

I walked toward the entrance of the store that faced the subway station. The first train of the morning rush hour had just arrived. People poured out from the station exit and walked up the escalator.

The first thing they would see was my restaurant.

At that moment, my phone lit up. I got a call from a number I didn't recognize. I answered it, but no one spoke. After a few sighs, I heard someone say, "Mr. Connor—"

I dropped the call and blocked the number.

In another two hours, Walt would be opening the door to Unit 402 on the fourth floor, only to find that it had been stripped bare.