Fired By The Hottest Ice Cube Alive

If grief was a storm, then the days that followed my father’s death were the flood.

The first wave hit on a cloudy Thursday morning, just a few days after we buried him.

I hadn’t resumed work yet—I had taken a week off to settle the family issues.

I was wiping the photo frames behind the counter at Morgan’s Table—my father’s pride, his life’s work—when two unfamiliar men in black suits walked in like they owned the place.

They didn’t order food. They didn’t ask for a table.

One of them headed straight for the front door, pulled out a hammer, and nailed a seizure notice to the glass.

“By court order,” he said flatly. “This property now belongs to the creditor.”

“What?” My voice cracked. “No—this must be a mistake—”

“Talk to your lawyer,” he said, already walking away.

The sign on the door read:

SEIZED. Property forfeited due to unpaid debt. Further trespassing is prohibited.

My stomach turned. I ripped the notice off the door with shaking hands.

Anna was behind me in seconds, her heels clicking sharply against the tiled floor. Her face was pale, lips pressed in fury.

Sierra peeked out from behind her, phone in hand, already recording or texting or—who knows what.

“What the hell is going on?” Anna demanded.

“I—I don’t know,” I stammered. “They said… creditor… seizure—”

Her eyes widened. “He took a loan?”

My silence answered her question.

“You mean to tell me Walter hid a massive loan, and now we’re losing everything because of it?”

I shook my head in disbelief. “He never told me. I swear, I didn’t know anything.”

“Well, of course, he didn’t tell me either!” she snapped. “But this is your fault!”

“What?”

“You’re his precious daughter,” she spat. “You were always involved in the business. How could you not know he took such a massive loan? You let this happen. Now my children and I are homeless—”

“We’re not homeless, Mom—”

“Not yet,” she said sharply. “But we will be if you don’t do something. The restaurant is about to be sealed. Our only source of income—gone. What’s next? Very soon, we’ll be out on the streets.”

I couldn’t speak. My throat burned with the weight of a thousand questions I could no longer ask my father.

That evening, the real storm came.

Two men knocked on our door—loan sharks, dressed in gold watches and fake smiles.

“Evening,” the taller one said. “We’re here about Walter Morgan’s debt.”

Anna stood frozen.

“How much?” I asked.

“$300k,” he said. “Interest included. Compounded. Overdue.”

“What? That’s insane!”

He smiled and pulled out a file. “Here’s the loan agreement. And guess whose name is in the agreement to collect from in case of the debtor’s death?”

I grabbed the paper.

My name was right there.

My father hadn’t only borrowed money from the bank. He had borrowed from loan sharks too.

I stood there, legs shaking. The bank in the morning, now loan sharks by night. What else? What did he use all the money for?

I stared at the paper like my answers were buried inside it.

Anna rushed out as she heard the voices. “Who are those again, oo?”

She snatched the paper from my hand. “Somebody save me ooo! The Morgan family is going to kill me with debt! Why? It’s not even a week since he died and two different groups of people have already come to say he’s owing!”

Then she snapped. “Fix it,” she said, dropping the loan agreement into my hand. “Pay it. You’re his first child. Don’t drag me and my kids down because of your father’s stupidity!”

I didn’t know what to say. All I know was—I promised the loan sharks a month to pay them back with interest.

I had no idea where that money was going to come from.

I only said it to get them off my back and away from the eyes of the onlooking neighbors already gathering around.

Something cracked inside me that night.

I went inside and started tearing through my father’s belongings, searching angrily for what he had used the money for. After an hour of digging, I finally saw it all.

He had used the money to save the restaurant during a financial slump… and to invest in a new branch. But the land deal turned out to be a scam. He was duped. And he spent months running helter-skelter, trying to pay it all back without letting any of us know.

Then he was diagnosed with cancer… and now he’s dead.

But the loans? Oh, they were still alive—and now they belonged to me.

—

The next morning, I got up before dawn, pressed my one good blazer, and dragged myself to CrossLux HQ.

I wasn’t going to cry. Not here. Not in this marble-and-glass empire of luxury and impossible dreams.

I had already signed a week off to grieve my father, but what was happening now was way beyond grief.

My plan was to go to work early, and later that day—beg my boss for six months’ salary in advance. Anything to settle a little of the debt.

“Morning, Ayla,” the front desk girl said.

I smiled weakly, nodded, and walked in.

Not even thirty minutes into work, our supervisor assigned me to the Sky Lounge.

Normally, my position in the company is just as a Hospitality Assistant. All I did was:

– Welcome regular guests

– Handle check-ins or table reservations

– Do light administrative help or assist senior staff

I was not trained or cleared for VIP service like the Sky Lounge or high-stakes guest interactions.

But as fate would have it…

I wasn’t supposed to be in the Sky Lounge that day.

Carla—a more senior staff member from the Sky Lounge—called in sick, and I was the only one on-site with a clean uniform.

Before I could even blink, our supervisor shoved a tray list into my hands with a tight smile and said, “Replace Carla for just today. You’ll only handle the basics. Smile, offer champagne, and don’t talk too much. Don’t mess this up.”

I didn’t even have time to reject it. The supervisor was already gone.

My head was buzzing—numbers, loan figures, threats, Anna’s screams echoing from the night before. I couldn’t think straight.

Still, I pulled myself together and wheeled the champagne cart to the elevator like a polite, well-trained robot.

The Sky Lounge was for CrossLux’s elite guests—politicians, foreign investors, old-money types with too much perfume and zero patience.

And sitting dead center that morning was him—Mr. Daniel. A major investor from Singapore with a face like a crocodile in Prada.

I greeted him with a soft smile. “Good morning, sir. Welcome to CrossLux.”

He didn’t respond. Just raised a brow like I was already a disappointment.

I tried to pour the champagne, but my hands were shaking. The ice in the bucket had started to melt—of course it had.

I hadn’t checked it after being pulled aside by HR to sign a form. Rookie mistake.

I placed the glass in front of him carefully, trying to stay calm.

He took a sip. Paused. Then stared at the glass like I’d poured him sewer water.

“This is warm,” he said in a thick accent. “Is this the standard of your service?”

My heart dropped. “I’m so sorry, sir. Let me replace it immediately—”

“Don’t bother,” he waved me off. “I’ve been sitting here fifteen minutes. No service, no smile, and now this?”

Fifteen minutes? That wasn’t possible.

“I was—” I began to explain.

“You were what?” he cut me off. “Distracted? Daydreaming? This is CrossLux, not a street canteen. This is so disappointing.”

Before I could respond, he stood up, muttered something under his breath, and walked out.

I stood frozen, my face burning, fists clenched behind the cart.

The manager—who had seen everything from the corner of the lounge—gave me a look I couldn’t decode.

Pity? Judgment? Both?

Either way, the damage was done.

—

I was called into the CEO’s office.

The CEO’s office—the hellhole of all CrossLux employees. No one wanted to be summoned there.

Being called in was like a death sentence.

Especially when your boss was Damon Cross—cold-blooded, hot-tempered, with no human feelings. No mistakes allowed.

The staff always said the only thing nice about him was his looks and height. But feelings? -100.

All my days at CrossLux, I’d never met him. Never wanted to.

But today, it seemed I wouldn’t be able to escape. My judgment day had come.

I dragged myself in.

Inside, the air was ice cold.

Damon Cross didn’t just sit in his chair—he ruled from it.

Tall. Composed. Handsome. Ugh. They were right—he looked good.

He wore a suit that probably cost more than my entire yearly salary. His fingers were interlocked. His face screamed no joy.

“Miss Morgan, right?” he said without looking up. “You were on duty in the VIP Sky Lounge today?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You made one of our highest-profile guests wait fifteen minutes before being served. The champagne you served was warm.”

He finally looked up, and the glare in his eyes hit like a triple kill in a computer game.

“I—I didn’t mean to—”

“You were distracted,” he said, his tone razor-sharp. “Unfocused. Sloppy.”

“I was dealing with a personal—”

“I don’t care.” His voice cut through me. “Whatever you’re going through stays at home. Don’t carry your family problems to CrossLux. This is a hospitality brand, not a therapy center.”

I blinked.

“CrossLux is not a charity,” he continued coldly. “Our guests expect excellence. Not excuses. Not emotional breakdowns. No mistakes allowed.”

“I—sorry, sir—”

“You’re fired.”

Just like that.

No warning. No second chance.

“Please, Mr. Cross. Just let me explain—”

He stood, towering over his desk like some emotionless god. “Walk out now, or Security will escort you to collect your belongings. What you’ve worked for this month will be paid into your account in minutes.”

The room spun. The air thinned.

Still, I nodded and walked out. Because what else could I do?

—

I didn’t cry until I reached the elevator.

The second the doors closed, the tears slipped down.

All I could see was my father’s face. The restaurant. The padlocked door. The loan sharks. Anna’s blame. Damon’s glare.

My whole world collapsing, one piece at a time.

When I stepped out of the building, I glanced back once—just once—at that glass tower behind me.

“Heartless man,” I said out loud. “I’m sure no blood is running in your veins. Only ice. That’s why you’re single and have no relationship.”

I paused, glaring up at the building like it owed me an apology.

“I hope whoever ends up marrying you, Damon Cross, has a fire extinguisher… and a therapist. Very cold-blooded human being. No human feelings.”

Then I added under my breath, “Better still, I hope your own reflection files for divorce. Because I don’t think someone like you deserves to even have a reflection as a companion.”

I tucked my bag under my armpit and walked away.