The Palm Reader's Prophecy

Margaret stood by the banquet hall's atrium, nursing her third champagne. The office Christmas party blurred around her—husbands in too-tight suits, wives in too-bright smiles. Her husband Richard held court across the room, that big-chested way he had, like a prize **bull** at auction, his laughter booming over the ambient jazz.

She'd stopped laughing three years ago.

"You look like someone who needs her fortune told."

Margaret turned. A woman in sequins stood beside her, holding an iPhone rather than a crystal ball. "I'm sorry?"

"Your **palm**." The woman gestured. "I do digital readings now. Upload a photo, algorithm tells you when you'll die, who you'll marry, whether you should take that job in Chicago." She laughed, cigarette-thin. "Old world mysticism meets venture capital."

Margaret almost left. Instead, she found herself extending her hand.

The woman snapped a picture with her iPhone. "Hmm. You're going to live to eighty-seven. You'll have two more children—surprise late-in-life twins, actually. And your husband..." She paused. "The algorithm's confused."

"Confused?"

"It keeps redirecting to his assistant's Instagram."

The room tilted. Margaret's hand trembled in the stranger's grip.

"Hey." The woman's voice softened. "You okay?"

"Fine." Margaret pulled away. Her fingers brushed against her neck, caught in the loose strands of hair she'd meant to tie back an hour ago. Richard liked it down. Said it made her look younger, less severe. At forty-three, apparently severe was a sin.

Across the room, Richard's hand rested on his assistant's lower back. Just a moment. Just a touch.

The woman followed her gaze. "Oh, honey."

"It's fine." Margaret's voice came out steady, which surprised her. "They've been working late on the merger."

"The merger ended in September."

Margaret set down her champagne. "I need some air."

She found herself outside, where the catering staff had set up a decorative pond. Three goldfish glided through the water, orange flashes against dark stones, trapped in their endless loops around nothing.

She remembered standing in this same spot seven years ago, pregnant with Emma, Richard promising her the world. His promises had always felt expansive then. Grandiose. Real.

Now she wondered if they'd ever been true at all.

Her iPhone buzzed in her purse. A text from Richard: *Where'd you go?*

Margaret watched the goldfish complete another circle. She typed: *Getting some air.* Then added: *I think we need to talk when we get home.*

The send button felt like a cliff edge.

Behind her, the party continued. Inside, Richard would probably check his phone, frown, then return to his conversation. He always prioritized the present moment over uncertain futures.

Margaret had spent two decades prioritizing his present moments.

She deleted the text. Instead she typed: *On my way.*

Then she walked toward the parking lot, toward her car, toward the rest of her life. The goldfish kept swimming, unaware they could simply leave the pond.