What We Don't Say

Margot watched the condensation slide down her glass of **water**, leaving trails like the ones grief had carved through her life over the past three months. Across the table, David laughed at something the waiter said, that same easy charm that had made them climb the corporate ladder together, made them trusted **friend** and confidant through two mergers and one disastrous affair with a married VP.

"You're thinking about it again," David said, his voice soft. "The board meeting."

"That's where you stabbed me, yeah."

She signaled for another round. This time she ordered an **orange** juice with vodka, something sharp enough to burn through the niceties. David had taken credit for her quarterly analysis—the one that had exposed the **bull** shit accounting practices their department had been hiding. Instead of standing with her, he'd let them fire her and taken her promotion as a consolation prize.

"It was just business, Margot."

"It was cowardice."

He sighed, picked at the **spinach** stuck between his teeth with his tongue. For a moment, he looked ridiculous. Human. The man who'd helped her pick up the pieces after her mother died, who'd held her hair back when she drank too much at office parties, who'd promised they'd rise together.

"You have something in your teeth," she heard herself say. The words came out softer than she intended.

He wiped his mouth, self-conscious suddenly. "Remember that conference in Chicago? You got so drunk on that orange liqueur and gave that presentation about ethical finance?"

"You carried me back to the hotel," she said. "You told me I was going to change the industry."

"You still could, Margot."

"Not from the outside."

He reached for his wallet. "Let me—"

"No." She stood up. "No more favors between us."

The check sat between them like a battlefield. She dropped cash on the table, exact change, and walked out into the rain, feeling somehow clean for the first time in months.