The Last Drink at Giza

The whiskey sat on the limestone ledge, condensation beading like sweat on Emma's neck. Three days sober, and here she was, an open bar at the company retreat, the Great Pyramid looming behind her like ancient judgment.

"You're not going to drink it?" Marcus stood beside her,afari fox-like grin playing at the corners of his mouth. He'd been promoted over her last month. The memo had arrived while Emma was at her mother's funeral.

"I'm fine." Emma adjusted her sun hat, conscious of how ridiculous she must look—black mourning dress at a sunset cocktail party in the Egyptian desert.

"You look like you need water." Marcus's tone was almost gentle, which was worse. "It's ninety degrees, Em."

She touched the cool glass. The fox was back—that predatory kindness he'd perfected in meetings, undermining her while pretending to help. Last quarter, he'd "assisted" with her presentation, then taken credit for the successful merger. This quarter, he was Director.

"I said I'm fine."

"Suit yourself." He raised his martini. "To the pyramid scheme." He laughed at his own joke.

Emma's phone buzzed. Her sister: *Dad's in the hospital again.*

She stared at the whiskey. One drink wouldn't matter. One drink to forget Marcus's promotion, her father's decline, three years of failed fertility treatments, the funeral she hadn't cried at because her mother would have wanted her to be strong.

"Marcus?" she said.

"Yeah?"

"That fox you wear?" She gestured to his silk tie. "It's crooked."

His hand flew to his throat. The momentary surprise was enough.

Emma tipped the whiskey into the sand. "I need to catch a flight."