Part 3Never Sue The Hand That Feeds You

His expression didn't change, and his tone remained flat.

“That is a cost you, as the business owner, must solve. You can explore other methods of revenue generation or provide premium services.”

He made it sound so simple.

“I set these prices low because I wanted to ease the financial burden on the community. After calculating my costs, I’m practically breaking even. This is a benefit I’m extending to the residents. Do you know the logistical nightmare involved in obtaining all those licenses and official paperwork you’re demanding?”

“I’d have to pay massive fees, and my costs would skyrocket. Did you consider that?”

“Sarah!” Owen cut me off. “This is not a benefit.”

“When you decided to open this business, you should have figured all of this out. Regardless of how high your costs are, you cannot disregard the residents’ rights.”

I was furious.

“So, you want to enjoy ridiculously cheap meals, but use the language of consumer rights to make me bear all the cost overruns and legal risk?”

“Food safety is non-negotiable.”

That hateful smile was still plastered on his face, but his eyes were ice cold.

“You can dress it up with pretty words, but why didn’t you consider these issues when you opened the Hub? Adults must pay the cost of their actions. You’re older than me, you should know that much.”

I struggled to remain calm and pulled the signed enrollment agreements from my drawer.

“I have contracts. They explicitly address the sourcing of the food. Everyone read and signed this section willingly. They agreed to it.”

Owen chuckled, flipping to the page I mentioned. He pointed to the clause, reminding me slowly:

“Sarah, did you consult a lawyer? Legally, that kind of clause won’t hold up. Even if they signed it willingly, if this goes to court, your supposed evidence won’t stand.”

There was a knock on the door.

It was Leo, the neighbor who often bought our leftover meals. Seeing Owen, he looked visibly uncomfortable.

“Sarah, I… just wanted to ask if there are any leftover pulled-pork sliders from lunch today?”

Before I could answer, Owen jumped in.

“Leo, I’m discussing the issues with the kitchen with Sarah right now. Don’t worry, once this is settled, you’ll have much higher quality meat to eat.”

Leo’s face lit up with surprise. “Owen, you’re the best! I hope you succeed.”

He hurried out, gently closing the door, even giving Owen a discreet thumbs-up—forgetting completely that he came in to buy food.

That image hit me like a physical blow.

...

Their gambit failed.

I posted a long message in the group chat, firmly rejecting their so-called "Proposal."

I told them explicitly that I opened the Hub and set the prices out of consideration for the community—a service barely breaking even. I framed it as the convenience and benefit I provided.

If they were unhappy, they were free to use the expensive, fully regulated after-school centers nearby, or eat at outside restaurants, or simply stop coming here.

In short, I would not concede an inch.

The next day, the kitchen and after-school hub were still packed. Only a handful of families stayed away.

But plastered to the door of my office was a formal notice.

It was a joint statement from the residents, co-signed with a property management company, demanding that I comply with their Proposal, or they would pursue their legal rights.

The name signed at the bottom was Owen Maxwell.

I ripped the document off the door right in front of the diners and tossed it in the trash.

After that, the atmosphere in the Hub died. People stopped talking when I approached, and they deliberately avoided eye contact.