Chapter 1

The roar of the crowd was a physical force, a wave of sound that hit me even backstage. They were chanting the name of our brewery, "Chadwick Ales! Chadwick Ales!" We had just won the gold medal at the Great American Beer Festival for our Imperial Stout, the biggest award in the country. It was my recipe, a secret I' d spent years perfecting in my notebooks, a dream Nicole and I had built from the ground up.

I adjusted the collar of my work shirt, my hands rough from hauling grain sacks and cleaning tanks. This was it. The moment every brewer dreams of.

The announcer called our name. I started to walk towards the stage, a genuine, tired smile on my face.

But Nicole, my wife, the CEO, moved faster.

She stepped directly in front of me, blocking my path. She grabbed Wesley, her brand manager, by the arm and pulled him with her into the spotlight.

"Thank you, thank you so much!" she beamed at the crowd, her voice echoing through the massive hall.

I stopped, frozen in the shadows of the stage wing.

Wesley, that smooth-talking influencer who knew more about hashtags than hops, wrapped his arm around Nicole' s waist. It wasn't a professional gesture. It was intimate, possessive. The cameras flashed, capturing the image of them, the "faces" of Chadwick Ales, accepting the award for my beer. My heart didn' t just ache; it felt like a heavy, cold stone had settled in my gut.

After the ceremony, the fake smiles and back-patting finally ended. I found Nicole in our designated VIP area. Wesley was still glued to her side.

"Ryan," she said, her tone all business, no warmth. "We need to talk."

"I think we do," I replied, my voice flat.

"There are rumors," she started, not looking at me, instead adjusting the medal that hung around her neck. "About me and Wesley. It's just noise, of course, but it's bad for the brand."

Wesley smirked, a look of pure triumph on his face.

"So," Nicole continued, "we've decided it's best if you take a sabbatical. A forced one. To rest. It'll show the industry we're stable and that you trust me to run things. It's for your own good, really."

Before I could even process the insult, Wesley stepped forward. He was holding a cardboard box. My box. From my office.

"I packed up your personal effects for you, man," he said, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "Didn't want you to have to worry about it."

Inside, I could see my worn-out boots, a few photos, and on top, my original recipe notebooks. The very soul of the brewery, handed to me in a box like I was being fired from a temp job.

I didn't say a word. I just took the box from him, the weight of it feeling like a tombstone. The betrayal was so complete, so cold, it left no room for shouting. There was only a quiet, resolute clarity.

I turned and walked away, leaving them in the glow of their stolen victory.