The Corporate Gala

Marcus picked at the spinach wilting on his plate, the corporate gala's fluorescent lights reflecting off each leaf like miniature interrogation lamps. Three months ago, Elena would have leaned across the table and whispered something sarcastic about the decor—about how these events were just performance art for people who'd forgotten how to feel anything genuine.

Tonight, Elena's chair sat empty. She'd left two weeks ago, taking only her clothes and their cat, Bastet, named after the Egyptian deity they'd both joked watched over their apartment like a feline sphinx. The cat had been hers first, a shelter rescue with one ear and an attitude problem, but Marcus had grown used to the weight of her sleeping on his chest during those Sunday morning hours when they'd pretend the week wasn't coming.

Now his chest felt too light.

'You're not eating, Mr. Chen,' said the woman beside him—senior vice president of something or other, her name escaping him like water through cupped hands. 'The spinach is quite excellent.'

Marcus forced a smile. 'Just thinking about work.'

Above them, the resort's glass ceiling revealed a sky that looked artificially blue, like someone had Photoshopped the darkness out of it. His division's organizational chart had been his PowerPoint masterpiece that morning—a perfect pyramid showing his team's position in the corporate hierarchy. He'd presented it to the board with rehearsed confidence, watching their nods like a conductor waiting for applause.

But as he'd traced the pyramid's ascending lines with his laser pointer, he'd realized Elena wasn't in his phone's contacts anymore. Not blocked. Just gone. And somewhere in a different apartment, Bastet was probably sleeping on someone else's chest.

Marcus speared a piece of spinach. It was cold. 'You're right,' he told the vice president. 'It's excellent.'

He swallowed something that wasn't food at all.