Chapter 2You Traded Gourmet Food For Poison

I hung up and went back to my plain noodles.

I didn't eat the lunch boxes, but it wasn't because the food was bad.

I had major gastrointestinal surgery last year and was still on an incredibly strict, bland diet. No oil, no spice, no heavy seasoning.

For the past twelve months, my daily fuel was plain millet porridge and simple handmade wheat noodles in clear broth.

As the Venmo notifications chimed on my coworkers' phones, the complaints started.

"Well, we got this month's refund, but what about the past year?" someone grumbled. "That's an extra hundred and fifty a month we overpaid. Over eighteen hundred dollars a year. That’s a couple of luxury bags right there."

"One-fifty a person, times twenty people... that’s three grand a month he was skimming. More than his actual salary! He was literally using our hard-earned money as his personal allowance."

"No wonder he wears designer clothes and those nice watches. We paid for them."

I didn't bother explaining. No one would ever believe that a millionaire's son was working a mid-level logistics job for "experience," let alone that his family was losing a hundred grand a year to feed them.

They would just see any defense as a guilty cover-up.

I took my last bite of noodles, sealed the plastic container, tied it in a bag, and walked to the trash can.

The loud thud of the container hitting the bottom of the bin cut right through their murmuring.

Every eye in the room locked onto me. I saw disgust, disdain, and a heavy dose of self-righteous fury.

I looked back at them, keeping my voice cool and even.

"If you truly believe I've defrauded you, feel free to file a report with the Better Business Bureau. If you have concerns about the food quality, contact the Department of Health. The Miramar is happy to cooperate with any official inspection."

With that, I turned and walked out.

Chelsea hurried out after me, watching my expression closely.

"Tyler, are you okay?"

I shook my head. "I'm fine. Honestly."

"They're just jumping to conclusions. I know you weren't ripping us off."

I offered her a small smile. "Thanks, Chelsea. But really, I’m okay."

Losing this burden was actually a dream come true.

A year ago, Courtney had tasted a bento box my dad's chef had prepared for me. She begged me to bring her one, offering to pay.

At first, it was just her. Then a couple of others joined. Soon, it grew to the entire department.

Every day, I had to coordinate menus, taking down everyone's hyper-specific dietary needs and preferences.

Hank had severe type 2 diabetes; his meals had to be completely sugar-free.

Janice hated cilantro. Greg was severely allergic to shellfish. Bobby couldn't handle even a hint of spice.

I had to meticulously label and double-check every single order.

For a year, not a single person had gotten sick.

My dad used to tease me: "Your coworkers are treated like royalty, Tyler. You’ve never paid this much attention to my diet."

I had poured my energy, my time, and my family’s money into keeping them happy, only to be branded a criminal.

When I got back to my desk, Garrett sidled over, wearing a look of performative guilt.

"Hey, Tyler, man. I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to steal your thunder or anything. I was just trying to do right by the team."

He leaned in, lowering his voice. "Everyone says you're a super chill guy. You aren't mad at me, right?"

Mad?

Why would I be mad? He had just saved my family a hundred grand. I wanted to buy the guy a drink.

"No," I said, keeping my face blank. "Not mad."

He grinned, throwing an arm around my shoulder with unearned familiarity.

"I knew you were a team player! Hey, since you already have everyone's dietary restrictions and preferences written down, do you mind forwarding me that spreadsheet? Save me the trouble of making a new one."

"Oh, and one more thing. Since you won't be needing that heated delivery van anymore, do you think I could borrow it? It seems like a waste to let it just sit there."

I stared at him, genuinely stunned by the sheer audacity.

That van was a specialized, medical-grade heated food transport vehicle with built-in UV sanitization, purchased specifically for this daily run.

And this kid—who had just accused me of poisoning our coworkers for profit—had the nerve to ask to borrow it?

My chest tightened with a sudden, sharp spike of anger.

I looked at his smug, innocent face, pulled his arm off my shoulder, and uttered two words:

"No way."

His smile vanished instantly.

"Wow, Tyler. Seriously? It's just a van. You aren't even using it anymore. What's the big deal?"

A few coworkers immediately chimed in.

"Honestly, Tyler, that’s so petty. You made so much money off us, you probably bought that van with our cash anyway. The least you can do is let Garrett use it."

"We're all trying to get by, Tyler. Don't hold a grudge just because Garrett found a better deal for us. It makes you look really small-minded."

"Yeah, it’s just a vehicle. You're hoarding it out of spite because he exposed your little racket."

The words stung, sharp as needles.

A year of labor. A year of bespoke, gourmet meals tailored to their health needs. A massive financial loss for my family.

And this was the thanks I got.

I looked at them, my gaze turning icy.

"The van belongs to the restaurant group. If you want to lease it, contact their corporate office. I don’t have the authority to lend it out."

"And let me make this very clear: I have never made a single cent off any of you. If you want to sue me or report me, go right ahead. I welcome it."

"But if I hear one more slanderous word about my character, I won't hesitate to involve my family's legal team."