I Paid the Bill, Then They Paid the Price

At the Christmas party, Bella Snow, a Gen Z intern in my department, suggested we go to an exclusive private restaurant. Under the table, she rubbed her foot against my calf. “Director,” she purred, “if you don’t have a few too many drinks tonight, how am I supposed to get my chance to move up?” To avoid any suggestion of impropriety, I made a point of arriving late. When I walked in, I found they had ordered ten king crabs and two bottles of Louis XIII. The moment she saw me, Bella stood up, a triumphant smirk on her face, and led the other interns towards the door. “Oh, the Director’s here! We kids won’t disturb your meal.” “You can get the check, though,” she added with a wink. “After all, you’re the one making six figures.” They giggled as they scurried out, even snatching a few unopened boxes of expensive cigars on their way. I looked at the bill, my face impassive, and paid with my card. Then, I took out my phone and sent a message to the department’s group chat. “This year’s Christmas team-building event was a great success. Thank you all for your participation.” “As per company policy, the budget for this event was $1,000, which I have paid in advance.” “The remaining $14,000, which exceeded the budget, will be split among the 12 participating colleagues. That’s $1,167 per person.” “Please transfer the amount to me by the end of the workday tomorrow. I will provide an itemized receipt.”

1 The day before Christmas, Bella Snow was livestreaming from her desk, her phone propped up right next to her company monitor. She swayed her hips for the camera, the hem of her short pleated skirt threatening to fly up as she spoke in a syrupy-sweet voice. “Hey everyone! Tonight, I’m going to show you what a super-exclusive private dinner looks like.” “And while I’m at it,” she giggled, “I’m going to conquer our uptight, sleazy old director.” The comments section exploded with encouragement. The department’s administrative assistant walked over with a form, whispering a reminder. “Bella, you need to submit the restaurant choice for approval in advance for team events. And the budget is capped at one hundred dollars per person.” Bella snorted. “This is a private dinner hosted by Director King for us interns. Your little rules don’t apply to him, do they?” The assistant, flushed with embarrassment, retreated with her form. I was in the break room making coffee and saw the entire exchange. The dinner was set for seven, but I deliberately waited until eight to leave. Pushing open the door to the private room, I was hit by a wall of alcohol and seafood fumes. The massive round table was a wasteland of empty glasses and plates, dominated by the shells of a dozen enormous king crabs. Several gift-wrapped boxes of premium bird’s nest soup were stacked in a corner. Seeing me, Bella showed no sign of awkwardness. Instead, she rose to her feet like the hostess of the party. She dangled a set of car keys and shouted to the group of tipsy interns. “Alright, ladies, next stop, karaoke! Director King is here to pay the bill!” A male intern, his eyes glazed over, slapped the table. “Thanks, Director King! You’re the man!” As Bella passed me, she paused and whispered, her voice meant only for me. “Wyatt, consider this meal the down payment for pursuing me.” “Too bad,” she smirked, “I’m not interested in old men.” With that, she and her entourage swept out of the room in a chorus of laughter. A waiter approached with a credit card machine and the bill. “Sir, your total is fifteen thousand dollars. Will that be card or digital payment?” Diners at nearby tables cast curious glances, their whispers reaching my ears. I ignored them, pulled a black card from my wallet, and handed it to him. “Card. And please print an itemized receipt for me.” The waiter’s hand faltered for a second before his professional mask slipped back into place. On the way home, I pulled over and opened a file from the company’s internal server. The employee handbook, Chapter 3, Article 12, “Team Building Expense Reimbursement Policy,” was clear: Departmental team-building events have a per-person budget cap of $100. All expenses must be submitted to the administrative and finance departments for prior approval. I took a screenshot. Late that night, I posted a message in the main department group chat, tagging everyone. “This year’s Christmas team-building event was a great success. My thanks to Bella Snow, Jessica Lee, Mark Chen… and the other 12 colleagues for their enthusiastic participation.” “As per company policy, the budget for this event was $1,000, which I have paid in advance and will be reimbursed by the company.” “The remaining $14,000, which exceeded the budget, is to be split among the 12 participating colleagues. That’s $1,167 per person.” “Please transfer the funds to my Venmo or PayPal by 9 AM tomorrow when you arrive at work.” “I will forward the itemized receipt to each of you shortly.” The chat went dead silent. The interns, who had just been flaunting their lavish dinner on social media, were nowhere to be found. Half an hour later, an intern named Jessica meekly typed a message. “Director, you make a seven-figure salary. Are you really going to nickel-and-dime us interns over this? We only make three thousand a month.” I picked up my phone and typed a reply. “I earned my money through skill and hard work. It didn’t fall from the sky. I have no intention of paying for someone else’s vanity and greed.” “This is a workplace, not your parents’ house.” “If I don’t see the money by 9 AM tomorrow, our legal department will be in touch.” Bella remained silent in the group chat. But two minutes later, a colleague, Liam, sent me a screenshot. It was Bella’s social media post, a picture of her flipping off the camera in a karaoke room. The caption read: “Warning: avoid this sleazy, gross old man. Tried to get me to sleep with him, and when I refused, he’s trying to make me split a $15,000 dinner bill. So disgusting! Ugh!” The post was hidden from my view. I looked at the screenshot, a faint smile playing on my lips.

2 The next day, I walked into the office right on time. A group of interns from the dinner were huddled in a corner. They scattered the moment they saw me, their eyes a mixture of resentment, contempt, and schadenfreude. At nine o’clock sharp, the morning meeting began. Bella clicked in on her high heels at 9:05. She walked straight to the associate director’s chair next to mine, sat down, and started touching up her makeup. I glanced at her but said nothing, launching directly into the day’s agenda. “Bella, where’s the first draft of the marketing proposal I asked for yesterday?” She snapped her compact shut with a click, checked her reflection, and rolled her eyes. “Oh, Director King, I was so disgusted by a certain cheapskate last night that I couldn’t sleep a wink.” “How could I possibly have the energy to think about proposals?” “Besides,” she added with a sneer, “we Gen Z are here to fix the workplace, not to be slaves for capitalists. Stop rushing me.” “Yeah! I’m in a bad mood, no inspiration.” “This is our silent protest against exploitation by unethical management!” another chimed in. I ignored their outburst and turned my attention to another intern, Mark. “Mark, what about the competitor analysis report you were assigned?” Mark leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and pulled out his phone to play a game. “Director, Bella said we’re all on strike today. You can deal with it.” I opened my laptop, my fingers tapping a few keys, and accessed the company’s security system. I clipped and saved the footage from yesterday afternoon: Bella’s livestream, the admin’s attempt to intervene, and this morning’s footage of them all arriving late and playing on their phones. I packaged it all into an email to the Head of HR. The subject line read: [Regarding Serious Breaches of Labor Discipline and Attendance Irregularities by Interns in the Creative Department]. The meeting ended on a sour note. As I was getting water from the break room, I passed the smoking lounge and heard Bella on the phone, her voice loud. “He just wants to sleep with me! I’m telling you, from my very first day, he was staring at me with those creepy, leering eyes!” “That dinner was a trap. He wanted to get me drunk, but luckily, I was smart enough to get out of there.” “Now that he sees I didn’t take the bait, he’s furious. He’s using the dinner bill to pressure me. Isn’t that disgusting? What a pervert!” I leaned against the doorframe, cup in hand, and waited for her to hang up. “Bella,” I said calmly, “slander is a criminal offense. Are you aware of that?” She jumped, startled, but quickly composed herself with a sneer. “Well, well, Director King eavesdropping on private conversations? How tacky.” “I’m warning you,” I said, my voice low, “you have a few hours left before the deadline for the transfer.” “Think carefully. Is it better to lose a thousand dollars, or to lose a whole lot more?” Bella burst into exaggerated laughter. She suddenly whipped out her phone, opened her streaming app, and shoved the camera in my face. “Everyone! Everyone, come and see! This sleazy old man is threatening me now!” “Just because I wouldn’t let him harass me, he’s threatening to sue me for slander! Everyone, come and judge for yourselves!” Thousands of viewers flooded the stream, and the comments scrolled by in a blur of insults directed at me. “Wow, that guy looks decent, but he’s such a creep.” “Go girl! Sue him! Ruin his career!” “Get out of there, sister! People like that will retaliate!” I didn’t flinch or try to grab her phone. I even managed a slight smile for the camera. “Hello, I’m Wyatt King.” “You’d better not end this stream,” I said, my voice even. “This is all evidence for the court.” With that, I turned and walked away, leaving her stunned and speechless. Back at my desk, I sent a text to my personal lawyer. “Get ready. Slander suit, with a civil claim for damages attached.” At five-thirty, the workday ended. The group of interns strutted past my desk, making a point to snort contemptuously. Just then, my phone vibrated. It was a Venmo notification for $1,167. From Liam. He included a message. “Director, I’m sorry… I didn’t mean for this to happen. Bella forced us to go.” “She said anyone who didn’t go wasn’t a team player and would be ostracized…” I stared at the message for a few seconds. Then I hit “Decline Payment.” I replied: “You don’t need to pay this. Don’t do anything. Just watch.”

3 The next day, I was jolted awake by the frantic ringing of my phone. It was the company’s PR Director, her voice laced with panic. “Wyatt! What on earth did you do to that intern? The entire internet is filled with stories about you!” I hung up and opened Twitter. The third trending topic was a single hashtag: #AdAgencyDirectorHarassment. I clicked on it. It led to a long, detailed article, complete with photos, posted by a gossip account with over a million followers. The headline was sensational: [EXCLUSIVE! Renowned Ad Agency Creative Director Wyatt King Accused of Luring Female Intern with Position, Attempting Assault, and Extortion!] The article painted me as a lecherous middle-aged man who preyed on young, beautiful interns, constantly harassing them. The “proof” was a series of carefully cropped chat screenshots. For instance, I had asked Bella: “Is the proposal finished? If you have time tonight, let’s discuss the details.” The screenshot only showed: “Do you have time tonight?” Another example: I had said, “That skirt you’re wearing today is a bit too short and unprofessional for the office. Please be mindful of the dress code.” The screenshot only showed: “That skirt you’re wearing today…” followed by a drooling emoji. The most damning piece of evidence was a so-called “candid photo.” It was from the restaurant. My pen had fallen on the floor, and I had bent down to pick it up. The photo, taken from an incredibly misleading angle, made it look like my head was buried under Bella’s skirt. The caption read: “He was touching me under the table! I was so scared my legs went weak!” The comment section was a cesspool of thousands of comments, all of them personal attacks. “This guy should be chemically castrated!” “He looks so respectable, I can’t believe he’s so disgusting!” “That Bella girl is no angel either, wearing a schoolgirl skirt to work?” The story spread like wildfire through the industry. The CEO of a pre-IPO company I was courting for a major merger sent a direct email. “Mr. King, in light of the current negative press regarding your personal conduct, we have decided to suspend all collaboration to mitigate risk. We wish you the best.” I had spent six months on that project, worth hundreds of millions. It vanished in an instant. And then, a greater blow fell. My wife, her eyes red-rimmed, threw a set of divorce papers in my face. “Wyatt, you’ve completely humiliated me!” “My mother called, asking if you’re keeping a mistress!” “I don’t want to hear your excuses. Let’s just separate for now. I need time to think, to reconsider our entire relationship.” She didn’t give me a chance to speak. She just dragged her suitcase out and slammed the door behind her. Then came the messages from several headhunters I’d worked with for years, simple “sorry” emojis. The word was already out. I was blacklisted from the industry because of a sex scandal. The moment I got to the office, my door was kicked open. Bella and her cronies strode in. She slammed her phone down on my desk. It was open to the article slandering me. “So, Director King, how does it feel? It’s not too late to get on your knees and beg.” She looked down at me, her face a mask of undisguised triumph and greed. “Here’s the deal. You’ll forget about the dinner bill, and you’ll pay each of the twelve of us one hundred thousand dollars for emotional distress.” “Then, you’ll post a public apology on the company website and your personal Twitter, admitting that you harassed me first.” “Do that, and I’ll be the bigger person and ask the gossip site to take down the article. What do you say?” I had only one word for her. “Out.” The smile froze on her face. I ignored her, locked my office door, and closed the blinds, shutting out the frantic knocking from the PR and HR departments. From my drawer, I took out everything I had prepared. The itemized receipt from the restaurant, officially stamped. The video footage of their collective work stoppage from that morning. And a digital voice recorder, containing Bella’s extortion attempt from just moments ago. I took a deep breath and dialed 911. “Hello, this is Wyatt King. I’m calling to report a case of online slander and blackmail.” After hanging up, I sent a text to Liam. “My office. Now.” A few minutes later, Liam slipped in, looking nervous. I didn’t waste time. I pushed a file across the desk to him. It was a detailed bank statement I had acquired from a private investigator. The account holder was Bella Snow. For the past six months, there had been a regular monthly deposit of thirty to fifty thousand dollars from the corporate account of that very same private restaurant. “This is proof that Bella was using her position to steer clients to that restaurant in exchange for a hefty kickback on their alcohol sales.” I looked up, my eyes locking onto his. “It’s called corporate embezzlement. It carries a sentence of three to ten years.” “She used you as a pawn. Are you still going to cover for her?” “Think carefully. Do you want a full-time job with a modest salary, or do you want to go to jail with her as an accomplice?” The color drained from Liam’s face. His lips trembled, unable to form words. With a shaking hand, he pulled out his own phone and played an audio file. “Director… I recorded this at the dinner…” “I just wanted to have it as a memory…” I took the phone and pressed play. Bella’s cloying, syrupy voice filled the room, crystal clear. “Go wild, girls! Order the most expensive things on the menu!” “This old man is all about saving face. There’s no way he won’t pay!” “He wants to sleep with me, does he? Well, tonight we’re going to make him bleed! Teach him that I’m not that easy!” “Why’s he so jumpy? It’s just my foot, it’s not like he’s going to get pregnant. What a prude…” I picked up my own recorder from the desk and smiled.