Investing In My Three Crippled Wives Get 10,000x Times Return

Chapter 176: 176 | Scheming Brat

"Knock!" "Knock!" "Knock!"

Dexter heard a knock at the gate.

His Enhanced Hearing picked up the heartbeat before the knock even landed and he immediately knew who it was.

He sighed, cleaned up his hands from washing the plates and then walked out of the door, to the gate.

Tessa stood on the other side, grinning from ear to ear as her green eyes sparkled.

"So?" Dexter asked, leaning against the gate frame. "How did the food business go?"

Tessa’s grin widened as she batted her eyelashes, and placed both hands behind her back.

"Guess."

Dexter rolled his eyes.

He was not in the mood for guessing games.

Lyra’s strange behavior was still gnawing at the back of his mind, spoiling imhjs mood slightly.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Just tell me."

Tessa pouted at his bluntness. The pout lasted approximately two seconds before the grin broke through again.

"We sold out," she said. "All twenty portions. In under eight hours."

Dexter stared at her.

"Eight hours?"

"Eight hours, every single container was gone. The shelf was empty by 3 to 4 in the afternoon."

Dexter was stunned.

Eight hours was not something he had expected. He had prepared for the possibility that the meals would take two or three days to sell and had braced himself for the likelihood that most people in this neighborhood would take one look at the price, hesitate, and walk away.

He had been wrong.

People in this neighborhood had been willing to spend money on a meal made by a stranger for 5000 dollars which was insane.

The heaviness that had settled over him since the incident with Lyra’s diary lifted as he felt a hint of satisfaction.

As a chef, as a Foodsmith, there was no greater validation.

"I didn’t have your contact information," Tessa continued, rocking on her heels. "Otherwise I would have called you. Definitely. We probably could have sold ten more portions if we’d had them."

"A few people came in specifically asking if there was more. One man bought two portions. A woman from Elm Street bought one, and came back twenty minutes later asking if she could buy another. And then there was this one older guy."

She paused dramatically.

"He wanted to personally know who made the food. I had to come up with some sort of excuse about the chef being a private person who didn’t want to be identified. It took some convincing to make him leave."

Dexter nodded slowly. The man had probably felt the effect of the Grade One meal.

"Thank you, Tessa," Dexter said. "Seriously. Thank you for handling everything."

"You’re welcome, Boss Chef."

Dexter considered the numbers.

"I should increase the batch size," he said. "From twenty to thirty. Maybe even forty if I can manage the prep time."

Tessa nodded vigorously. "I was going to say thirty minimum. Maybe even fifty if you have the time. Mr. Thompson, you know, the retired hero two streets over? He bought a portion and loved it and also, Mrs. Alvarez. They want to buy more, regularly."

She paused, her expression shifting to something slightly more earnest.

"And some of them are quite curious about you."

Dexter shrugged. "I’m quite busy. Maybe another time."

Tessa’s eyes lit up with a new idea.

"There’s a festival this weekend," she said. "Well, more of a picnic, really. The whole neighborhood participates. It happens at Roland Stone Garden, which is close by. You and your wives could come. Meet everyone. Get to know the people around here."

Dexter blinked as he thought about it but then, he shook his head.

"I’ll probably be too busy to attend. But I’ll keep it in mind."

Tessa pouted again. This time the pout was genuine. "It would be really good if you came, Dexter. The neighbors aren’t as bad as you think. They’re just... cautious. They don’t know you yet. Once they do..."

She trailed off, leaving the implication hanging.

Then her expression shifted back to business.

"Okay, give me your account information. Let me transfer the funds."

Dexter nodded and recited his account number. Tessa typed it into her phone, double-checked the digits, and hit send.

Dexter’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and opened the notification.

[Transfer received: 90,000 credits]

[From: Tessa Wren]

[Available balance: 1,590,000 credits]

Dexter stared at the number.

Ninety thousand credits. In a single day. From twenty portions of food that he had cooked in less than two hours using ordinary ingredients and deliberately suppressed techniques.

The warmth in his chest expanded.

But then his Foodsmith mind, ever analytical, kicked in. He ran the numbers. Twenty portions. The price on the sign had been set at six thousand credits per portion, which Tessa had apparently adjusted upward from the original five hundred when she saw the demand. Twenty portions at six thousand credits each was one hundred and twenty thousand.

Not ninety thousand.

There was a thirty thousand credit discrepancy.

Dexter looked up from his phone. He stared at Tessa with narrowed eyes.

"Where is the rest of the money?"

Tessa smiled. It was the smile of a woman who had been waiting for this exact question and had prepared her answer in advance.

"That’s my commission."

Dexter’s eyes narrowed further. "Your commission?"

"For selling the food. Twenty-five percent."

"Twenty-five percent?"

"Yep."

Tessa crossed her arms and leaned against the gate post with her green eyes shinnng bright in amusement. She looked like a cat that had just stolen a fish and was daring the owner to say something about it.

"I sold the food," she said, ticking off points on her fingers. "I dealt with the customers. I handled the payments. I answered all their questions about the meals and what they did and how they worked. I protected your identity when people started asking who the chef was. And I personally dealt with four separate people who begged me for extra portions that didn’t exist."

She lowered her hand and pointed at herself proudly.

"Don’t you think I’m worth twenty-five percent?"

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