The lawyer opened the SUV door. Noah hesitated, then climbed in. Ten minutes later, the car didn’t stop at a gleaming corporate skyscraper. It pulled up right outside the diner.
Inside, his former manager, Greg, was polishing the espresso machine. He spotted Noah and scoffed, his face twisting into a cruel sneer. “I told you, you’re done here. Get out before I call the cops.”
“He won’t be leaving,” a cold, commanding voice echoed from the doorway.
Greg froze. Noah turned.
Standing there was the old man from the rain—but the soaking-wet coat and trembling hands were entirely gone. Instead, he wore a razor-sharp Tom Ford suit, a platinum Rolex, and a gaze that could cut through steel.
“Mr. Bennett?” Greg stammered, dropping his rag. His face drained of all color. “Sir, I—we weren’t expecting an inspection—”
“Clearly,” Arthur interrupted, stepping into the warm light. He pulled out the exact same black smartphone Noah had seen him tapping in the rain. He pressed a button. The diner’s speakers crackled to life, playing a crystal-clear audio recording: *You’re fired. We’re not a shelter.*
“Those four customers recording through the window last night?” Arthur smiled, but it was completely devoid of warmth. “My private investigators. I’ve spent a month posing as a vagrant at my own franchises to find out why our community outreach funds were vanishing. You embezzled sixty grand, Greg. And you couldn’t even spare an orange juice for a sick man.”
Two detectives stepped out of the diner’s back office, handcuffs drawn.
As Greg was dragged out into the exact same freezing rain he’d left Arthur in, the billionaire turned to Noah. He didn’t offer him his old barista job back.
He tossed Noah a heavy ring of keys.
“The manager position just opened up,” Arthur said, buttoning his suit jacket. “Breakfast is at six.”