Chapter 4: Hush Money

The steakhouse smelled like bourbon and charred meat. Waiters glided by, eyes fixed on the horizon. Deals lived and died in places like this.

Ethan Grant didn’t waste time. He slid into the booth—Allbirds, Patagonia vest, hair perfect. “Seventy-five grand, right now. We call it even, and you keep quiet. Deal?”

He didn’t bother with pleasantries. His eyes were steady—confidence built on money and power.

This kid was tougher than his dad. In a month, he’d forced out the finance and procurement directors, and cleared the old guard. His Stanford degree paid off in ruthlessness.

He radiated that new-blood decisiveness—no patience for nostalgia.

“Sorry, I’m not in this for the money.”

I let the silence stretch, watching him. I wanted him to know I wasn’t desperate.

He met my gaze, unblinking—a flicker of respect, or calculation, in his eyes.

He leaned back, fingers steepled. “I wire $75,000 now as a consulting fee. We’re done.”

He slid his phone across the table, ready to transfer. A digital handshake, meant to silence me.

I almost laughed. With a transfer record and yesterday’s call, it’d be a clear setup for extortion. I’d seen this trick before.

“So, Ethan, you trying to get me ten years in prison?”

He didn’t blink, just took a sip of water, eyes narrowed.

“Mr. Bailey, there’s $75,000 in cash in my car trunk in the parking garage. You can take it—no paper trail. What do you say?”

What is this, a scene from Breaking Bad?

“No, I don’t want hush money. I just want what I’m owed.”

My voice was steady. I wanted him to see I still had pride.

“Fine, treat this as compensation.”

He said it with a shrug, like settling a bar tab.

“Alright, but let’s be clear: this is my severance compensation.”

I stared him down, pulling out my folder, every clause highlighted. “Then please sign this severance agreement.”

He blinked, thrown off, but signed anyway—quick and hard.

I took the agreement, got the money from the parking garage, and went home. The cash felt heavy in the fireproof box in my basement, next to the Christmas lights. My hands shook. All those years, and it ended with a bag of cash in my basement, next to the Christmas lights. Some legacy.

Just as I left the restaurant, my phone buzzed. The former finance director’s name flashed.

“Bailey, don’t touch that money! They’ve already covered their tracks—paid back the taxes, paid the fines. You’ll be the only one left holding the bag.”

His voice was frantic. My stomach dropped. I looked at the bag of cash, stunned.

It was too late. Young Mr. Grant was determined to send me to jail.

I’d thought I was protected by mutual destruction, but I was the only one left holding the grenade.