The Last Supper at Leone's

Marcus stared at the wilted spinach on his plate, its dark leaves glistening with olive oil and regret. Leone's had been their place for seven years — the site of their first date, the engagement dinner, the celebration after he made junior partner at the firm. Now, across the table, Elena wouldn't meet his eyes.

"You said the market was a bull," she said, her voice low and controlled. "You promised."

"It was. Until Tuesday." Marcus reached for his wine, then stopped. His hand trembled — just slightly, but she noticed. She always noticed.

Outside, lightning cracked the sky, illuminating the restaurant's warm amber interior in a harsh flash of white. The other diners laughed, unaware that three families' savings had evaporated in Marcus's "sure thing." He'd leveraged everything on the pharmaceutical IPO, convinced the research was solid. Instead, the FDA had rejected the application in a surprise morning announcement, and Marcus's margin calls had triggered by noon.

His iPhone vibrated against the table — his fourth notification from the firm's compliance department in twenty minutes. He ignored it.

"We can't keep the apartment," he said. "The summer house on the Cape is gone. The accounts are empty."

"I know." Elena finally looked at him, her eyes tired rather than angry. "What I don't understand is why you didn't tell me you were taking those kinds of risks. We didn't need double. We had enough."

"I was trying to give you what you deserve."

"I deserved a husband who talked to me." She signaled for the check. "My mother was right about you. She said you were like your father — always chasing the next big thing, never satisfied with enough."

The check arrived. Marcus's corporate card was declined. He paid with the last of his personal cash, watching Elena walk out into the storm without him.

Standing on the sidewalk, phone vibrating with messages from lawyers and creditors, Marcus watched her taillights fade. The spinach had been bitter, but not nearly as bitter as the taste of his own hubris.