The Bodega Owner Treated Me Like an ATM for Ten Years. Today, I Ruined Her Daughter's Career. Chapter 1

The owner of the corner store at the entrance of my neighborhood has treated me like a sucker for years.

For $28.60 worth of snacks, she’d ask for $29.00, calling it "rounding up."

She rounded up for ten years.

Even when I clearly had coins on me, she’d pretend not to hear and only accept whole bills.

I didn't say a word, silently acting as her "ATM" for four years.

Until today, when our conglomerate's Data Analysis Department was hiring a new Director, and a woman with a glowing resume walked in.

When I saw the familiar phone number in her emergency contact section, I smiled.

I shut off the projector displaying her proud big-data model and said only one sentence to her:

"You're disqualified."

* * *

It was the evening rush hour, and the line at the corner store stretched all the way back to the snack aisles.

I stood at the very end of the line, holding a bottle of water and a plain bagel.

In front of me, a woman in a designer fur coat—Mrs. Higgins—slapped a massive pile of imported snacks onto the counter.

"That'll be $108.50."

Brenda, the store owner, smiled so wide her powder-caked face wrinkled like a dried prune.

"Oh, Mrs. Higgins, you're always so busy, thanks for dropping by! Let's just knock off that fifty cents. Give me $108!"

Mrs. Higgins tapped her phone to pay, looking smug. "You always know how to do business, Brenda."

Brenda beamed as she sent her "VIP" out the door. But the second she turned to look at me, her smile vanished entirely. "Next."

I stepped up and placed my water and bagel on the counter.

The barcode scanner beeped twice.

The digital register clearly displayed: $4.20.

I pulled up my Apple Pay.

Brenda didn't even blink. Her thick fingers aggressively mashed the keys on her ancient register.

"Five bucks."

I pointed at the screen. "It says $4.20 right there."

Brenda rolled her eyes dramatically.

"Anything under five bucks gets rounded up to five. That's the store policy. It's called rounding up, don't you get it?"

Rounding up $4.20 to $5.00?

Did she learn math from a gym teacher, or from that Ivy League daughter she was always bragging about?

Before I could even argue, Brenda spit her toothpick onto the floor and started her sarcastic tirade.

"Broke? If you don't have money, don't come into a store. Go drink out of a public water fountain, that's free."

"There's a whole line of people behind you! Do you have any basic decency?"

She had a booming voice, and instantly, every single person in the store turned to look.

The neighbors in line, unaware of the truth, started whispering.

"She's dressed so nicely, why is she being so cheap?"

"Seriously, it's less than a dollar. Is it worth holding up the line?"

"Hurry up, I need to get home and cook dinner."

This was Brenda's go-to tactic for peer pressure. She had used it for years, and it never failed.

As long as you cared about your public image, you'd cough up the money just to escape the embarrassment.

I clenched my fists so hard my nails dug into my palms.

Did I care about eighty cents? No.

I cared about the principle.

But I couldn't blow my cover. Not yet.

I was currently in the final stages of investigating a massive supply-chain tax fraud and price-gouging ring that Brenda was a key node in.

On my encrypted laptop, a folder detailing her fake inventory channels was just missing one final piece of hard evidence.

If I caused a scene now and tipped her off, my six months of undercover tracking would go up in smoke.

I had to endure it.

I lowered my head, hiding the storm brewing in my eyes.

Beep. Payment successful: $5.00.

Brenda’s phone chimed with the deposit notification.

She let out a smug snort, deliberately raising her voice for the people behind me.

"See? Some people just need to be yelled at. If you don't publicly shame them, they won't pay. Pathetic."

She ripped the receipt from the machine, crumpled it into a ball without looking, and tossed it at me.

It bounced off my chest and hit the floor.

"Take your trash. And don't go around saying I scammed you."

At that moment, the urge to rip her apart was almost unbearable.

I bent down, picked up the crumpled ball of paper, and gripped it tightly.

Without a word, I turned and walked out.

Outside, my assistant Zoe was waiting in my car.

Seeing me approach, she immediately rolled down the window, catching sight of my pale, furious face.

"Stella, did that old witch mess with you again?!"

Zoe had a fiery temper. She unbuckled her seatbelt, ready to storm out.

"I'm going to rip her a new one! Who does she think she is? You're a Data Director making seven figures, why are you taking this garbage from her?"

I grabbed her wrist, stopping her.

"Don't."

"But Stella—"

"It's not time yet." I stared through the glass doors at the greedy silhouette inside the store. "Let her be arrogant for a few more days."

Those whom the gods wish to destroy, they first make mad.

The more brazen Brenda got now, the harder she was going to hit the concrete when I finally pulled the rug out from under her.