Chapter 4 - The Broken Toy and the Hundred-Thousand-Dollar Check She Threw Right Back in My Face
The following Monday, I made a profound mistake.
I operated in a world where money resolved every dispute, purchased every loyalty, and erased every inconvenience. When a supplier failed, I paid a penalty to replace them; when a politician hesitated, I funded their next campaign; when an associate was injured, I wrote a six-figure check to ensure their silence and comfort.
I assumed Megan Foster operated under the same universal laws of currency.
At two o'clock in the afternoon, I sat in my office with a freshly printed cashier's check from my private account. The amount was written out in crisp, black ink: $100,000.00.
It was more than enough to completely wipe out the fraudulent debt Marcus Vance was holding over her head, pay off any lingering legal fees, and leave her with a comfortable safety cushion for Tommy’s future education.
I pressed the intercom on my desk. “Nancy, ask Megan to step into the office for a moment.”
Three minutes later, Megan entered, carrying a feather duster and wearing a faded yellow sweater. She looked exhausted; Tommy had been teething through the night, and she had spent hours walking the halls of the east wing rocking him to sleep.
“You wanted to see me, Mr. Mason?”
“Sit down, Megan.”
She sat in the leather armchair across from my desk, looking at me with a mixture of curiosity and caution.
I slid the cashier’s check across the smooth walnut surface until it rested directly in front of her.
Megan glanced down at the paper. Her eyes widened slightly as she read the six-figure number, then flicked up to meet mine. “What is this?”
“That is one hundred thousand dollars,” I stated matter-of-factly. “Take it to your bank today. Pay off the Vance debt in full. Hire an attorney to file a permanent restraining order against Bradley and Marcus Vance. The remaining twenty-two thousand dollars is yours to keep as an advance on your salary.”
Megan didn't touch the check. She simply stared at it as if it were a venomous snake coiled on the wood.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked, her voice dangerously quiet.
“Because you saved my life during the fever, and because having Marcus Vance harassing people under my employment is a security liability,” I explained, falling back on cold corporate logic. “It’s practical. It cleans up the board.”
Megan stood up slowly.
She picked up the hundred-thousand-dollar cashier’s check between two fingers. For a brief second, I thought she was going to thank me, put it in her pocket, and leave.
Instead, she tore the heavy paper right down the center.
Rip.
Then she folded the halves and tore them again, letting the four pieces flutter down onto my desk like confetti.
“Are you out of your mind?” I barked, my temper flaring in disbelief. “That was a certified check!”
“And I am not your charity case!” Megan yelled right back, leaning over the desk, her hazel eyes blazing with pure fury. “Do you think you can just throw money at me and make me feel like a beggar in your house? You think because you have millions in the bank you can buy my gratitude?”
“I was trying to help you, you stubborn woman!”
“Help me? You didn't ask me what I wanted! You didn't treat me like an equal human being! You treated me like a broken appliance you could pay to fix so you wouldn't have to look at the damage!” Megan’s voice cracked with raw, unvarnished pain. “Bradley took my name, took my credit, and treated me like property. I will never let another powerful man pay my way out of a corner so he can hold it over my head later!”
“I wouldn't hold it over your head—”
“You wouldn't have to! You’d know it, and I’d know it! I earn my living, Dominic. Every single cent I feed to my son comes from work I do with my own two hands. If I pay off that debt, it will be because I defeated Marcus Vance legally, not because his billionaire rival handed me a golden parachute!”
She turned on her heel and stormed toward the door.
“Megan, wait!” I called out, my voice louder than I intended.
She slammed the heavy oak door behind her so hard the crystal sconces on the wall rattled.
I sat in the middle of my silent office, surrounded by millions of dollars in art, high-tech surveillance systems, and four torn scraps of paper worth one hundred thousand dollars.
For the first time in twenty years, I felt utterly, completely defeated by someone who didn't possess a single weapon.
Ten minutes later, Frank cautiously poked his head into the room. He saw the torn check on the desk and winced. “Boss... you okay?”
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“She tore it up, Frank,” I whispered, staring at the paper scraps in sheer wonder. “She literally tore up a hundred thousand dollars.”
Frank scratched the back of his neck, a faint, knowing grin appearing on his scarred face. “Told you, boss. That girl isn't made of glass. She’s made of iron.”
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