Vitamins for the Fox

Margaret stood in the bathroom at 2 AM, staring at the orange prescription bottle. Prenatal vitamins. The irony tasted bitter on her tongue—she'd been trying for three years, while her sister's pregnancy announcement sat like a lead weight in her stomach.

She washed down the pill with tap water, catching her reflection in the mirror. At forty-two, with fine lines around eyes that had seen too much corporate betrayal, she resembled a tired cat—wary, territorial, increasingly selective about who earned her trust.

Tomorrow she'd face Richard again. The office fox, sleek and ruthless, had been undermining her for months. Subtle digs in meetings. Emails cc'd to undermine her authority. The way he smiled when things went wrong on her watch. He'd already made his play for her corner office while she was on medical leave last month.

Her phone glowed on the counter. A text from her sister: Mom's moving in with me. You can visit her on Sundays.

Margaret's hands shook. Sunday visits. Condensed motherhood. Vitamins for a womb that refused to hold life, while Richard arranged to take over the division she'd built from nothing.

She opened the cabinet and found Richard's forgotten vitamin bottle—left from when they'd still been friends, before he'd decided her position looked better on his résumé. Vitamin D. The sunshine supplement.

The fox had come in from the cold, and Margaret realized she'd been letting him. Too accommodating. Too willing to believe in decency that didn't exist.

She texted back: I'll bring wine tomorrow. Good red. We'll toast to new beginnings.

Then she emailed her lawyer: Saturday still works for the divorce prep?

Finally, she texted Richard: 8 AM Monday. Bring your resignation letter. I have evidence of the Embezzlement.

The fox had thought he was hunting. But even cats remember their claws.