$2000 Bonus? Watch Your Century-Old Restaurant Die

Chapter 4

I had no idea how much time had passed before the fever finally hit.

The infection on the back of my hand was spreading rapidly.

My entire arm had swollen, turning red and painfully inflamed.

My temperature climbed above 102°F.

I leaned against the corner of the office, my thoughts becoming hazy as my entire body shook uncontrollably.

When I opened my eyes again, I wasn't in the office anymore.

I was lying in the utility room behind the restaurant.

Empty wine crates and mop buckets were scattered across the floor.

The smell of mildew seeped through the cracked walls.

My "bed" was nothing more than two cardboard boxes pushed together, with a dirty old tablecloth thrown over them as a blanket.

My head still throbbed from the fever.

My arm was so swollen I couldn't even close my fingers into a fist.

The sound of clinking glasses drifted in from the room next door.

"Come on, Ethan, have another drink. Calm yourself down."

"Dad, don't worry. I already contacted Attorney Harris. The PR team has handled everything. We're putting all the blame on that temporary line cook. We've even prepared the name we'll release."

"That's my son. Always thinking ahead. Come on, let's have another toast."

"Margaret, stop crying. Everything's fine now."

"Yeah, try this expensive whiskey. It's my gift to you, Mom."

Their laughter seeped through the wall and pierced my ears.

I forced myself to sit up.

The pain in my arm was so intense that my vision went dark for a moment.

I held onto the wall and stood there for several minutes before I finally regained my balance.

I pulled out my phone.

A new message was waiting on the screen.

It was from Julian.

Sent two hours earlier.

Julian: Chef York, I've received the location. Do you need me to come over now?

Three days earlier, I had sent him the address of The York House.

Even back then, I already knew.

This day would come eventually.

I typed back: Yes, please.

I pushed open the door to the front dining room.

The table was covered with food.

Crab shells were piled high like a small mountain.

Three empty bottles of whiskey sat on their sides.

Margaret was placing food onto Ethan's plate.

Olivia held up her phone, recording footage for their "perfect family dinner" post.

They froze when they saw me.

I stood in the doorway.

My hair stuck to my forehead.

My face burned red from the fever.

My injured arm hung weakly at my side.

Blood had already seeped through the gauze.

"I quit. I'll sign the statement too."

Margaret's eyes immediately lit up.

"Really? It took you long enough. We're family. What's a little sacrifice when it helps everyone else?"

She immediately opened a drawer and pulled out a stack of documents.

Her movements were almost too quick.

They had clearly prepared everything long before.

A confession statement.

A non-compete agreement.

A document transferring all rights to my recipes.

Three sets of each.

Not a single blank space remained.

I picked up the pen.

Richard leaned closer, his voice full of urgency.

"Once you sign, you can leave. Take your things and get out."

Margaret added, "You should think carefully before you do this. Without The York House, someone like you, who only knows how to work in a kitchen, won't even be able to survive. When you fail out there and come crawling back, begging us to take you in, we might consider it. As for your salary... we'll discuss it later."

I signed my name slowly and deliberately.

Then I put the pen down.

I returned to the utility room and picked up the canvas bag I had used for six years.

Inside were two changes of clothes.

A brand-new tube of burn cream that had just arrived.

And one power bank.

I walked out without looking back.

Ethan's arrogant voice followed behind me.

"Get out of here! Hurry up! The York House will be perfectly fine without you! Who do you think you are? Some world-famous chef? I have all your recipes now. Even a culinary student following your notes could make them better than you ever could!"

I pushed open the front door of the restaurant.

The cold air hit my feverish face.

A black Rolls-Royce Phantom was parked directly outside.

The engine hummed quietly.

The rear door opened.

Julian stepped out.

He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit. The brass-colored buttons on his cuffs had a vintage look, as if they had been passed down through generations.

Two assistants stood behind him.

One held an umbrella above him.

The other carried a document folder with both hands.

Julian took two steps toward me before stopping.

His eyes moved from my feverish face to my swollen arm, where blood had seeped through the bandages.

He paused.

But he didn't ask questions.

"Chef York, thanks for your patience." He stood straight, his voice even and unhurried. "Grandcrest Hotel is prepared to offer you three million a year, plus a twenty percent equity stake tied to your expertise. You'd have full say over the R&D kitchen, sourcing, and who you bring onto your team."

He took the document folder from his assistant and held it out to me with both hands.

"The offer letter and contract are inside. They can take effect whenever you're ready."