Chapter 2

The moment Marcus Ford left, Greg’s face transformed.

He marched back into the office, slammed the door, and wiped that flattering smile completely off his face.

"Avery, what the hell was that attitude back there?"

"Did you not hear Mr. Ford? He was thrilled with the pitch!"

I closed my laptop.

"I heard him loud and clear. Mr. Ford demanded the 'highest standard' and zero traces of 'cost-cutting.'"

Greg let out a cold sneer.

"Highest standard?"

"Do you have any idea how much the 'highest standard' costs?"

"I gave you a budget! If it goes over, are you paying the difference out of your own pocket?"

"Business is about profit margins!"

"Make the surface look pretty. Who the hell looks beneath the hood anyway?"

He stepped right up to me and dropped his voice.

"For this project—the venue build, the staging, the materials—you use the vendor list Rachel gave you."

"I already made the calls. They'll give us rock-bottom rates."

My heart sank.

I had seen Rachel’s vendor list.

It was stuffed with obscure, unlicensed chop shops whose only selling point was being dirt cheap.

"No, Mr. Miller. Absolutely not."

"A project for Marcus Ford demands Tier-1 vendors. That will be written into the contract."

"Those backyard workshops don’t even have basic safety certifications! If an accident happens, who takes the fall?"

"What could possibly happen?"

Greg waved his hand dismissively. "You use who I tell you to use. If anything happens, I take the blame!"

"How are you going to take the blame?"

I stared straight into his eyes. "Can you afford to breach a multi-million-dollar contract?"

"Can you afford the reputational damage to The Ford Group?"

"Can you afford the VIPs' safety?"

The barrage of questions turned Greg’s face a furious crimson.

He pointed a shaking finger right at my nose.

"Avery, don't push your luck!"

"This is an order!"

"I only take orders from professional standards and legally binding contracts."

With that, I tucked my laptop under my arm and walked straight out of his office.

I knew right then that I had made an enemy of him.

That afternoon, Rachel summoned me to her office.

Her space was even colder than Greg's, styled strictly in black and white like an interrogation room.

She tossed a thick budget folder onto the desk in front of me.

"Here’s the preliminary vendor budget for the Gala. Look it over."

I opened it. Just as I expected, it was filled with those bottom-barrel vendors from her list.

From shuttle rentals to VIP catering, every quote was ridiculously cheap.

"Mrs. Miller, this budget cannot guarantee the quality of the project. I won't sign off on this."

Rachel leaned back into her leather chair, arms crossed, staring down at me coldly.

"Avery, do you seriously think this firm can’t run without you?"

"That’s not what I’m saying."

"Marcus Ford’s project cannot afford a single mistake."

"It can't afford a mistake, so your solution is to shower overpriced vendors with our money?"

"They get fat off our dime, but where does that leave our profit margin?"

"Where does that leave staff payroll?"

"Do you ever think about this company?"

Her words were soaked in righteous indignation, painting me as a selfish villain sabotaging the team.

I flipped straight to the catering page and tapped a finger against the company name.

"'FlavorBite Catering.' Just last month, they catered a wedding that gave over thirty guests severe food poisoning."

"Mrs. Miller, do you really want that on the front page of the morning news for this Gala?"

I flipped to the vehicle rental section.

"'SwiftRun Shuttles.' They own three buses, and two of them failed their state safety inspections."

"Are you planning to put Marcus Ford's VIP guests into deathtraps like that?"