The Last Supper at Miller's

David adjusted his tie in the rearview mirror, the silk catching the streetlamp's amber glow. Inside, the dinner party was already thick with tension—the kind that settled in your chest like cold soup.

'You're late,' Sarah said, not looking up from her wine. Her husband Marcus sat beside her, wearing that polite, predatory smile that had earned him the nickname 'the fox' around the office. He'd David's promotion three months ago, along with Sarah, who'd been David's friend since college.

David placed the wilted spinach salad on the table. 'Traffic was a bear.' The weak joke landed heavy as stone.

Their golden retriever, Buster, sensed it too—padding beneath the table, nudging David's knee with desperate affection. Everyone knew David and Sarah had almost crossed that line last winter, those nights working late on the merger, hotels in Chicago, whiskey and secrets spilled in dark rooms.

Marcus poured another drink. 'Speaking of bears—did you hear? Corporate's restructuring.' His tone was too light. 'They're eliminating your division, David. Effective Monday.'

Sarah finally met his eyes. Something shattered there—regret, exhaustion, perhaps relief.

The dog whined. The spinach glistened with condensation like sweat on a fevered brow. Outside, a siren wailed, and David suddenly understood: this wasn't betrayal. This was mercy. They'd all been drowning in that office for years, and someone had finally cut the anchor rope.

He reached for the wine bottle, his hand steady for the first time all evening. 'To new beginnings,' David said, and meant it.