Do you really want it? Part 3
The following weeks were a blur for Peter and Damian. They ate, worked, made love, and ate some more. They were two true lovebirds until the inevitable day came for Peter to board his plane to Dubai. His shirts had grown snug, but he wore them proudly, a silent testament to Ahmed and the journey he was on for him.
When he arrived at the compound, he was greeted by an imposing figure: Vladimir, a towering man in a polo that stretched tightly over his frame, hinting at a similar weight gain regimen. His heavy Eastern European accent broke the silence. “Welcome. Your bags will be taken to your room. Let’s get to work.” Without further ado, they climbed into a golf cart and began weaving through the estate. Peter was struck by the sheer scale of it. It felt vast, opulent—almost overwhelming.
They arrived at a building that was clearly a medical facility, its sleek design at odds with the warmth of the estate. It was beautiful in its aesthetics but unmistakably clinical, leaving Peter slightly uneasy. Vladimir ushered him into an office—a stunningly designed doctor’s room that still managed to give off an air of intimidation. “Undress to your underwear. The doctor will be here shortly,” Vladimir said before stepping out.
Peter complied, sitting awkwardly on the examination bed until the doctor entered. The man almost took Peter’s breath away—it was the same doctor, still strikingly handsome, with an aura of authority bit this time he also sported a belly.
The doctor wasted no time. “Good morning, Peter. I hope your flight was pleasant.” Before Peter could answer, the doctor had moved on. “Let’s check your blood pressure.”
"Normal," the doctor muttered to himself. “Great. Now step on the scale.”
Peter complied, curious yet apprehensive. “Good work, Peter. You’ve reached your goal.”
“Can I know how much?” Peter asked, anticipatory excitement in his voice.
“No,” the doctor replied curtly. “That’s for Ahmed to reveal. I’m just here to inform you of your new goal. You’ll be here for the next four weeks, during which you’ll gain the same amount of weight you’ve just gained in the past month.”
Peter’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Then I must know how much I’ve gained!”
The doctor, unfazed, simply said, “No.” With a quick press of a button, Vladimir reappeared. “Escort Peter to his room,” the doctor instructed.
Peter, frustrated and confused, tried with Vladimir. “Why won’t he let me know my weight?”
Vladimir, ever stoic, replied, “That’s Mr. Ahmed’s decision.”
“Where is Ahmed?” Peter asked, his voice tinged with irritation.
“You’ll see him at dinner,” Vladimir said simply.
Back in the main building, Peter was shown to his room—an opulent space that felt both familiar and extravagant. It was the same room he had stayed in during his first visit. “Lunch is served in the dining hall, and Mr. Richie will join you,” Vladimir announced. “You’ve got two hours to yourself. Would you like me to show you the pool?”
"Yes, please," Peter replied.
"Please use the provided robes when traveling to and from the pool," Vladimir advised. "It prevents slipping on the marble floors and avoids catching a cold from the air conditioning while wet. The dining dress code is smart casual. Beyond that, feel free to wear swimwear at your leisure."
Peter noticed his luggage had already been unpacked and expertly arranged in the walk-in closet. Among his clothing hung a stunning Arabian robe, tailored to perfection. Intrigued, he tried it on, marveling at how luxurious it felt. Vladimir then led him through the estate, pointing out significant areas: the open gym in the first courtyard, a formal middle courtyard, and finally, the third courtyard—a paradise of lush greenery, serene pools, and exquisite lounging spaces.
“Enjoy. What can I bring you?” Vladimir asked.
“A tea, please,” Peter said, still absorbing the beauty around him.
Minutes later, Vladimir returned with a trolley bearing a gleaming silver teapot and an elaborate tower of macarons and pastries. Peter curiously bit into one of the macarons, savoring the flavor. Before he realized it, he was devouring the entire tray, stuffing his mouth greedily. The pastries disappeared within minutes, leaving Peter so full and content that he dozed off on the lounger.
About an hour later, he was awakened by voices. Across the pool stood a striking man with an open robe, his tanned frame muscular but softened by a noticeable belly. The man waved and approached him.
“Hey there, mister,” he greeted warmly. “You’ve been out for at least an hour. I’m Jack, a friend of Ahmed’s. You’re Peter, right?”
Peter nodded, taken aback, and instinctively flexed his belly. Jack chuckled. “Relax, man. We don’t judge here.”
Peter exhaled, feeling more at ease. He noticed his tray had been refilled—an unspoken cue. Jack smiled. “Eat up, big boy. They don’t waste food around here.” With that, he stepped away, heading to the other side of the courtyard.
Shortly after, Vladimir emerged. “Lunch is in thirty minutes,” he informed Peter.
Peter couldn’t resist the temptation to dig into the refreshed tray, managing to indulge in a few more macarons before heading to his room to change. When he arrived at the dining hall, the table was set for two. Moments later, Richie entered, greeting Peter with a hug and a congratulatory pat on his belly.
“Well done!” Richie said, grinning.
“You too, I guess,” Peter replied, noting Richie’s own expanded waistline.
“Yeah, I’m nearly at my goal,” Richie said proudly.
“Lunch is served!” another assistant declared, presenting them with appetizers. They started slow, but each subsequent course pushed their limits. The main course—a perfectly cooked ribeye paired with butter-laden mashed potatoes—demanded persistence. By the time dessert arrived—a massive Matilda chocolate cake—Peter recognized it instantly. It was double the portion he had struggled through weeks ago on the boat.
“Do you think…?” Richie began hesitantly.
“Okay, let’s do it!” Richie exclaimed.
They tackled the dessert with determination. It was a challenge, but they finished. Exhausted, they retreated to the pool, where assistants served lemonade and snacks. Though full, they succumbed to the polite but insistent offers.
Dinner finished, and Ahmed finally addressed Peter formally. “Congratulations, Peter.”
Peter, emboldened, asked, “So tell me, by how much?”
Ahmed smiled. “Twelve kilos, exactly.”
Peter smirked with satisfaction.
The blissful routine continued for two weeks, with Peter reveling in constant eating, light exercise in the gym with Richie, and luxurious relaxation by the pool. But one night, an intense bout of heartburn disrupted the paradise. It lingered into the day, worsening as diarrhea set in. Unable to hold anything down, Peter sought help from Vladimir, who brought him to the doctor.
The doctor examined him, noting a fever and elevated heart rate. “It’s likely a flu. Rest for a day or two,” he instructed, sending Peter back to bed with light soup for sustenance, though Peter couldn’t keep even that down.
By nightfall, his fever spiked, and he began hallucinating. He awoke in a sterile hospital-like room, hooked up to monitors with a nasal tube in place. Vladimir entered, gently lifting Peter’s head to give him water. “Your body is exhausted. Rest is what you need,” he said with surprising tenderness.
The next morning, the doctor returned. “Good morning, Peter. Feeling better?”
“Yes, much better,” Peter replied.
“Good. We’ll keep you under observation a little longer before restarting your program,” the doctor explained.
Peter recoiled. “Restart? But I can’t—I want to stop this immediately!”
The doctor’s expression remained neutral. “That’s not up to you or me. That’s Ahmed’s call.”
“Can I see him?” Peter pressed.
“I’ll inform him that you’ve requested a meeting,” the doctor said before leaving. Peter lay back, unease bubbling under the surface.
Doc left, and another giant of a man entered, pushing a trolley. "Breakfast," he grunted, his heavy Eastern European accent unmistakable. The tray held a mass-gainer shake, a bowl of oatmeal with fruit, and a generous serving of scrambled eggs. "I will remove the tube. Hang in there. Take this pill," he instructed, holding a small tablet in front of Peter’s mouth.
Peter blinked at him, confused. "Who are you?"
"My name is Tarek. Now eat." He pressed the pill closer, his stern gaze unwavering. "Don’t make me force it."
Reluctantly, Peter took the pill and washed it down with water. Frustration and anger seethed inside him—he had no appetite. He poked at the scrambled eggs but felt nauseous after a single bite. The oatmeal was slightly better, but after a few spoonfuls, he felt uncomfortably full.
Half an hour later, everything changed. His stomach growled loudly, a visceral hunger taking over. Without thinking, he grabbed the bowl of eggs, devouring it in seconds, followed by the oatmeal. He downed the thick shake, gulp after gulp, until the tray was spotless. Bewildered, Peter realized—the pill must have been an appetite stimulant.
However, his newfound hunger made him restless. Desperate for answers, he got out of bed, dragging the monitor—still attached to him—across the room. Luckily, the monitor had wheels, allowing him to wander. He quickly discovered he was on the second floor, overlooking a sleek, modern courtyard.
In the corridor, he noticed a partially open door. Quietly, he pushed it further and stepped inside. His gaze instantly landed on two feet stretched out in a bed, followed by the unmistakable figure of Tarek standing nearby. Tarek noticed him, his expression darkening as he strode toward Peter.
"You are not allowed here," Tarek growled, firmly gripping Peter’s shoulders and steering him back to his room. There was no room for argument; Tarek’s strength was overwhelming. Once back in the confines of his room, Peter slumped with frustration, his mind racing. He wanted answers, but his phone was nowhere to be found.
Stepping into the hall, Peter shouted for Tarek, who soon appeared, visibly irritated. "No phones here," Tarek barked.
"But I’m bored!" Peter protested.
"Watch TV," Tarek replied. "I’ll bring snacks."
Minutes later, Tarek returned, pushing a massive trolley piled high with treats—chips, candy, macarons, and more. Peter eyed the array suspiciously, deciding to skip the suspiciously appetizing macarons. Instead, he reached for a few Reese’s and started Netflix. Despite the distraction, unease bubbled in his chest—Who was the man in the other room? Why wasn’t he allowed a phone? And why were they so intent on making him eat?
Hours passed. Tarek returned, this time with a burger, fries, and an enormous milkshake. "The perfect Netflix lunch," he declared with a smile. "Oh, you barely touched the snacks!"
"My body’s rejecting it," Peter muttered.
"No worries." For a moment, Peter felt relieved—until Tarek produced another pill.
"Eat this," Tarek demanded.
Peter refused, shaking his head warily. Tarek’s expression turned stony. With shocking force, he shoved Peter back onto the bed, trying to force the pill into his mouth. Peter struggled, but it was like fighting a brick wall. "I want to see Ahmed!" Peter shouted, his desperation echoing in the room.
Tarek paused. "First, lunch," he said coldly.
Realizing he had no choice, Peter promised to eat. He took a few reluctant bites of the burger, nausea threatening to overwhelm him, and stopped. When Tarek returned and saw the half-eaten meal, he didn’t argue. Instead, he silently grabbed a syringe, injecting something into Peter's shoulder. Peter could only gasp before slipping into unconsciousness.
When he awoke, it was dark. A feeding tube had been reinserted into his nose. He groaned, falling back into a fitful sleep.
By morning, he found himself strapped to the bed, leather restraints biting into his wrists. Panicking, he screamed for help. Tarek entered, calm and implacable as ever. "No one is here. Just me." He leaned in closer, his voice a low rumble. "Are you ready to eat?"
"Call Ahmed!" Peter shouted, voice cracking with fear.
Tarek ignored him. "Are you ready?" he repeated. When Peter refused, Tarek connected a glass bottle filled with liquid nutrition to the feeding tube. Once again, Peter’s world faded into black.
When he woke, he was free of restraints. Knowing better than to stay put, he ventured into the hallway once more. Returning to the room he had explored earlier, he peeked inside and froze. Jack, Ahmed’s friend, was bound to the bed, a feeding tube pumping food into him. His stomach was grotesquely bloated, like a balloon about to burst. Horrified, Peter slipped away as voices approached, hurrying back to his own room.
Moments later, Tarek appeared. "Follow me," he said.
Peter was ushered into a sleek office where Doc and Vladimir awaited him. "Step on the scale," Doc instructed. Reluctantly, Peter obeyed.
"Very good," Doc murmured, satisfaction in his tone. "Vladimir, take him to Ahmed, he has reached his goal.”
Reached his goal? Peter got confused, looked at his belly and saw that it grew increasingly.
Led into a wing Peter hadn’t seen before, he felt a strange tension in the air. When he entered Ahmed’s office, the man greeted him warmly. "Peter!" he exclaimed. "I’m so happy to see you. I was worried!"
Peter frowned. "Worried?" He gestured at his now-bulging stomach. "What the hell is this? I didn’t agree to this!" I was sick!
Ahmed’s expression turned serious. "You made a commitment, and we made sure you reached your goal. Truthfully, I wanted to give you time to rest and restart—but the decision wasn’t mine to make."
Ahmed hesitated. "Michael’s."
Peter’s stomach dropped. "Michael?" He whispered the name like it burned his tongue.
Ahmed nodded. "Your car will arrive in a few hours. You deserved your rest now.
Rest? How could he rest? His mind spun with rage and disbelief—and an idea began to form. If Michael had orchestrated this, Peter would need a plan of his own.
Back in NYC, Peter was at the gym with Richie, both focused on reaching their personal goals. Peter’s strength was fully back, but he still had some lingering belly fat to lose. Richie’s belly was like a balloon now.
While spotting him on a bench press, Richie said, “Hey man, I know about your plan with Michael, but what if we also work on getting your numbers up? Are they paying you again for this?”
Peter shrugged. “I don’t know… probably. But i’m gonna lose the weight and I’m not getting fat again. That’s non-negotiable.”
Richie chuckled. “Don’t worry, man. I’m not saying that. But I seriously think you’ve got the potential to pack on some serious muscle. With the right supplements, you could grow into a beast. What do you think?”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “If you’re suggesting steroids, I’m not interested.”
“No, no,” Richie said quickly. “I’m not talking about that. I’ve got access to some new peptides. They show amazing results. I’m planning to use them myself, especially because this gut of mine is getting way out of hand. If I don’t fix it now, I’m afraid it’ll never go away. Plus, I need to get my numbers up too—or my investment’s going nowhere. So, what do you think?”
Peter hesitated but finally said, “Alright… let’s give it a shot.”
The following morning, they both took their first injection. Workouts became instantly more intense—they felt stronger, more energetic, and better overall. Later that day, Peter stood in front of a mirror and, for the first time in months, noticed his shape returning. His shirt even buttoned up without straining. Progress, at last.
When Peter went to the weight room to record his numbers and send them to Ahmed, he unexpectedly ran into Michael. It was their first time crossing paths since the breakup. Michael’s face betrayed a subtle blush as he offered an aloof, “Hi.”
Peter locked eyes with him and coolly replied, “Hi,” before stepping on the scale.
Later that morning, Peter received an email from Ahmed: *“Are you gaining weight again?”*
Peter replied, *“Yes. Just temporarily.”*
Ahmed responded, *“Great.”*
Not long after, Michael sent Peter a surprising text: *“You look good, mister.”*
Peter read it but didn’t reply.
With Damian overseas, Peter had settled back into his old routine. Two months in, and after one month of using peptides, his body had undergone a transformation. Pumped, ripped, and lean, his belly fat had nearly vanished. Richie, on the other hand, had bulked up significantly, but there was little evidence that his infamous gut had shrunk. On the contrary.
That day, as Peter weighed himself in the corner of the gym, Michael walked in again. Peter noticed the spark in Michael’s eyes as he looked him over—up and down. Taking the opportunity, Peter casually asked, “How are you?”
“I’m good,” Michael replied. “And you?”
“It’s nice to see you around more often,” Peter said, testing the waters.
“Likewise,” Michael stammered, cheeks slightly pink.
Just as Peter hoped, Michael later texted him: *“You’ve been looking really great lately. How’s life?”*
Peter responded: *“Good! I’ve been focusing on other clients, giving me more time to focus on myself as well. And you?”*
*“Good too,”* Michael replied. *“I just got back from Europe, so now I’m focused on establishing my life here again.”*
After that exchange, things went quiet—for days. Then, on weigh-in day, they crossed paths again. Peter was on the scale, his physique more impressive than ever, when Michael entered. Peter greeted him confidently, “Hi, Michael. Nice to see you again.”
Right afterward, Michael texted: *“I’d like to see you again—outside the office.”*
Peter hesitated but replied, *“I need to think about this.”*
The next day, flowers arrived at Peter’s place, along with a text: *“I’m sorry for how I ended things between us. Can I take you out to dinner?”*
Peter responded: *“Taking me out won’t undo the heartbreak, but… it’s a start.”*
Michael replied, *“You’re right. I’ll do better. How about dinner at Emilio’s?”*
As the evening approached, Peter pondered what to wear—he wanted to make an impression, to drive Michael absolutely wild. He chose one of his sharpest tailored shirts, some well-fitted chinos, and the cologne Michael always loved. The peptides and workouts had paid off—his shirt clung to his sculpted chest, and his pants perfectly framed his newly-defined physique. He left the top three buttons of his shirt undone and smirked at his reflection. He was ready.
When Peter arrived at Emilio’s, Michael’s eyes sparkled as they roamed over him. “You look incredible,” Michael admitted. “I’m so happy to see you again. I hope we can start fresh.”
Peter raised a hand. “Let’s not rush into things,” he warned. “I’ve built a life now—a *good* life. Back then, you were controlling, and when you tossed me aside, it took a long time to recover. I’m not sure how I’ll protect myself if that happens again.”
Michael looked genuinely remorseful. “You’re right,” he said. “I’ll prove that I can do better.”
Peter gave a small smile. “Well, I’m here, aren’t I? You were—are—the love of my life. But let’s take this slow.”
They ordered dinner, with Peter deliberately taking charge. “Let’s share the oysters and foie gras,” he suggested. “Then pasta and an entrecôte to split.” He even managed to convince Michael to eat most of the meal, including dessert. By the end of the night, Michael was slightly tipsy, giving Peter the upper hand.
Peter called a ride and sent him home in an Uber, victorious.
The next morning, Peter followed his regular routine, feeling quite satisfied with how things were progressing. He shared a laugh about it with Richie. Michael was noticeably absent from the office that day, prompting Peter to text him:
**Michael:** *Haha, yes.*
**Michael:** *Very much so.*
**Peter:** *Say no more.*
**Michael:** *Damn, Peter! That’s a ridiculous amount of food.*
**Peter:** *Let’s get rid of that hangover. I need you fit for tonight.*
**Michael:** *Tonight? I can’t, I’ve got a dinner.*
**Peter:** *I bet you can make it a quick aperitif meeting at 5 pm—then I’ve got you for dinner.*
**Michael:** *Damn, okay… let me see.*
**Michael:** *Alright, 8:30 pm at my place.*
Peter went for a 15 km jog before taking a quick shower and grabbing Thai food on his way. To round out the meal, he purchased a bottle of Coca-Cola, Coke Zero, and two slices of peanut butter cheesecake from The Cheesecake Factory. Before heading into Michael’s building, he swapped out the Coke Zero with regular Coca-Cola, then made his way inside.
When Michael opened the door, his eyes widened. "Wow, Peter! That’s way too much food!"
Peter chuckled. “No worries. Any leftovers can be tomorrow's lunch.”
What Michael didn't know was that Peter had secretly crushed a quarter of an appetite enhancer and mixed it into the Coke. As they sat down, Peter poured himself and Michael a glass—but refrained from drinking his.
It didn’t take long for Michael to devour the food, finishing it within minutes. Peter wasted no time and leaned in, starting to pleasure him. Michael climaxed almost instantly.
Still catching his breath, Michael asked, "Is there dessert?"
Peter smirked, pulling out the cheesecake. “Your favorite.”
They shared the cheesecake—or rather, Michael ate both pieces while Peter pretended to be too full after a bite. The evening ended in bed, where, between kisses, Michael admitted, “I’m so glad to have you back. And I love how incredible you look lately—your new physique is amazing.”
The next morning, Peter was up early and hit the office gym as usual, training alongside Richie. On his way back to the office, he bought a box of donuts and left them on Michael’s desk with a handwritten card. When he swung by later, Michael was already two donuts deep.
“Do I see you tonight?” Peter asked casually.
“Yeah!” Michael mumbled through a mouthful of donut.
From then on, Peter made it his goal to subtly add something unhealthy to Michael’s diet each day. This wasn’t easy, considering Michael’s strict calorie counting for the past year.
By the third week, Peter noticed a shift. That morning, he timed his visit to the weighing room to coincide with Michael’s routine. While pretending to organize some gym equipment, he overheard Michael grumbling to himself: “Damn it! These 2 kilos won’t budge anymore.”
When Michael emerged, Peter acted like nothing had happened. “See you tonight?” he asked nonchalantly.
Michael sighed. “Yeah, sure. But let’s just grab a salad, okay?”
Peter nodded. “Of course.”
Rather than risk suspicion, Peter brought salad as promised—but ensured the dressing contained a crushed appetite enhancer. As expected, Michael inhaled the meal, then grew restless, asking for dessert. Peter handed him a “protein shake,” secretly enriched with cream.
Minutes later, the restlessness persisted. “I need something to eat. Is there anything in the house?” Michael asked.
Peter shrugged. “Not really. What do you want?”
“I don’t know… Pretzels or M&M’s, maybe.” Michael frowned.
“I can run to the deli if you want.”
Peter returned with family-size bags of chocolate-covered pretzels, M&M’s, and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. Michael’s eyes lit up. He dove into the snacks like a man possessed—half the M&M's bag was gone before Peter even managed to scoop some ice cream into bowls.
It was a sight to behold. Michael was in a frenzy, alternating between ice cream, pretzels, and M&M’s, consuming everything so fast it was almost surreal. When he finally slowed down, Peter leaned in to kiss him, and the two ended up in bed.
Over time, Peter's plan began showing results. Michael was gaining weight. First, his tailored shirts became snug, followed by buttons struggling under pressure when he sat down. Eventually, he abandoned some of his pants altogether, unable to button them. Yet, Michael remained blissfully unaware of Peter’s schemes.
Peter, meanwhile, was transforming into a muscle-bound powerhouse. Michael adored it, showering Peter with compliments and expensive gifts.
Richie was spending less time at the office gym, preoccupied with the nearing completion of his own gym construction. By then, Peter had developed enough expertise to train on his own.
One day, after an intense workout, Peter and Richie headed to the showers. When Richie stepped out, Peter froze in surprise.
“Damn, bro—you’re huge,” Peter murmured, staring at Richie’s bloated belly and massively pumped physique. Richie looked like a blown-up bodybuilder.
Richie gave a knowing smile. “Yeah, it’s wild. I won’t lie—being this big has its challenges. I need an oxygen machine at night, and I haven’t seen my dick in ages. But hey, it pays off big.”
Peter smirked, flexing in the mirror. The sight aroused him.
“Man, you’re making excellent progress too,” Richie said, nodding approvingly.
Peter grinned. “Michael loves it. No way I’m stopping now—let’s see how far we can take this.”
Richie chuckled. “I’m with you, man.”
As Peter's deadline approached, he received an email from Ahmed:
**Subject:** Incredible Work
*You’ve been doing an amazing job and have exceeded all our expectations. The progress you’ve made with Michael is something we haven’t been able to achieve in years. We want to reward your hard work with a larger bonus than what was initially agreed upon. On top of that, we’ll be recommending you for a promotion to the board. In our eyes, you’re ready to take the next step.*
*Also, I’d like to invite you to spend the summer at my my Saint Tropez house—no strings attached.*
Peter responded promptly:
*Thank you so much for your generous offers. I’m thrilled by the news of the bonus and the potential promotion. I also gladly accept your kind invitation and would love to visit the house sometime soon. You’ll hear back from me shortly to coordinate.*
Not long after, Peter received another email, this time from Patrick Preston:
**Subject:** Follow-Up Discussion
*We’ve received an email from our UAE client regarding your work. I’d like to invite you for a lunch meeting as soon as possible to further discuss their request. Please let me know your availability.*
**Subject:** Meeting Availability
*Thank you for your email. I kindly propose tomorrow for the meeting.*
Ten minutes later, Peter received a response from Patrick’s secretary.
*Subject: Lunch Meeting Confirmation*
*Mr. Preston expects you tomorrow at The Bistro for your lunch meeting.*
Just as Peter finished reading the confirmation, Michael burst into his office with a curious expression.
"Peter, what did you *do* to get such a glowing endorsement from Ahmed?"
Peter leaned back in his chair with a slight grin. "I’ve just been hitting my targets," he replied matter-of-factly.
Michael raised an eyebrow. "Well, clearly you’ve done much more than that. They’re demanding a promotion for you, Peter. We’ve *never* had a request like this before. Patrick will fill you in tomorrow, but trust me—it’s huge."
With that, Michael added with a smirk, "Oh, by the way, I just got back from the tailor. I’ve gone up three sizes! Dating you is officially fattening!"
Peter stood up from his desk, walked over to Michael, and gently wrapped his arms around him, resting his hands on Michael’s growing belly. He kissed him softly and said, "You’ve never looked better."
The next day, Peter felt a mix of excitement and nerves as he arrived at The Bistro for his lunch with Patrick. When he entered, Patrick was already seated and greeted him warmly.
"Peter," Patrick began, "the company is absolutely amazed by what you’ve accomplished."
He paused briefly before continuing, "Ahmed has granted us an extraordinary investment, but there’s one condition: *you* must lead his medical investment branch in the UAE. It’s a huge promotion, Peter. You’ll be managing a team, overseeing multiple Designated Individual Projects (DIPs), and working at a completely different level."
Patrick leaned back in his seat, watching Peter's reaction. "This opportunity involves relocation, but we’re fully supportive of the move. Plus, if for any reason you want to return within two years, we’ll rehire you with the same benefits and seniority."
Over the next hour, they discussed the details of the opportunity over a hearty meal. By the end of it, Patrick, who had indulged perhaps a bit too much, reclined slightly in his chair and patted his now full stomach.
"So, Peter," he asked, grinning, "What do you think?"
Peter didn’t hesitate. He smiled confidently and replied, "When’s my flight?"
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