The smile on Julian's face dimmed.

"Come on, Marcus, don't be like that. I know you're upset about leaving, but this report affects the entire department's performance review. If Gretchen finds out, she'll say you didn't handle the handover properly, right?"

"The handover checklist was signed and confirmed."

My tone was flat. My eyes swept over several glaring errors in the PowerPoint.

"Besides, these are the most basic mistakes imaginable. They have nothing to do with the handover."

My bluntness wiped the fake smile clean off Julian's face.

"Marcus! What's that supposed to mean?"

"Sure, I don't have as much experience as you." His voice climbed higher with every word. "But Gretchen trusts me with the important work now, not you!"

He jabbed a finger in my direction, practically shaking.

"Don't like it? Too bad. I'm the one sitting in the project manager's chair. I'm the one who'll be by Gretchen's side going forward. No matter how capable you think you are, you were nothing but a stepping stone for me! You don't get to judge my abilities!"

Colleagues nearby turned to stare.

I didn't bother watching his performance. I kept packing my things.

"Your abilities will speak for themselves in time. You don't need my evaluation."

"You—!"

He sputtered, finger jabbing toward my face, ready to launch into another tirade.

"What are you two arguing about?"

Gretchen's voice cut in, dripping with impatience.

Her brows were drawn tight. Her gaze landed first on Julian, visibly agitated, and her tone softened by half a degree.

"Julian, what happened? Who's giving you trouble?"

"Gretchen..."

Julian latched onto her like a drowning man finding a life raft, breathless with indignation.

"I just asked Marcus to look over my report, and he—he mocked me, said I was incompetent, called my work garbage... He even said I stole his position..." His words tumbled out in a mess. "I was just trying to do a good job. I didn't want to let you down..."

He stammered and stuttered as though he'd suffered some unspeakable injustice at my hands.

"Gretchen, am I really that useless? Should I not have taken this position? I've put you in a difficult spot..."

I had to hand it to him—the man could twist the truth like no one else.

After hearing him out, Gretchen's frown deepened. She patted Julian's back reassuringly.

"Don't be ridiculous. You've been doing great. This position is yours, and nobody has the right to say otherwise."

Then she turned to me. Her expression hardened, eyes sharp with reproach.

"Marcus, what is wrong with you? You're on your way out and you still can't keep the peace? Julian came to you for guidance. Even if you weren't going to help, there was no reason to tear him apart. Look at the state you've put him in! Apologize. Now."

Her voice rang clear through the quiet office floor. Every head turned. Every pair of eyes locked onto me, waiting.

I looked at the two of them—one a masterful actor playing the victim, the other blindly taking his side without a shred of fairness.

For three years, scenes like this had ended with me swallowing my pride. Not today.

"Ms. Barnes, I'm not the one who owes anyone an apology."

My voice was steady. I held her gaze without flinching.

Gretchen seemed caught off guard. She studied me for a long moment, then lowered her voice.

"Marcus. My office. Now."

She shut the door, sealing off the prying eyes outside.

Leaning against the edge of her desk, she tried to soften her tone.

"Alright, Marcus. It's just us. Stop throwing a tantrum."

"That dinner tomorrow—I was just talking. Giving you an easy out. You think I'd actually make you pay that kind of money?"

"I know you're upset because Julian got the promotion. That's why you're threatening to leave. Look, how about I bump your salary by two thousand a month? Will that do it?"

"Stay. Be Julian's deputy and do what you do best. Nothing has to change between us. I still value you. I still trust you."

"With your talent, you'll keep the projects running smoothly. The team stays stable, the company stays happy. Everyone wins."

She gripped my wrist, her thumb tracing slow circles over the back of my hand, wearing the expression of someone who genuinely had my best interests at heart.

I looked at her face and felt nothing but nausea. I yanked my hand free.

"Ms. Barnes, my resignation was a carefully considered decision. I'm not joking around."

Gretchen's smile froze. Disbelief crept into her voice.

"So you'd rather shell out a hundred, two hundred grand of your own money tomorrow night to treat the entire company to dinner than accept my offer?"

She let out a scornful laugh.

"Marcus, who taught you math? Why insist on being the fool who picks up the tab?"

My tone didn't waver.

"Ms. Barnes, I've done the math. Some investments are a total loss. The smart move is to cut them before they bleed you dry."

"Cut your losses?"

A muscle in Gretchen's face twitched. She reached up, slow and deliberate, and straightened her collar.

"Fine. Wonderful."

"Since you're so flush with cash, why not do one more good deed?"

She leaned forward, her voice dripping with mockery.

"This quarter, hand your project numbers over to Julian. You're leaving anyway. You won't see a dime of that commission, so you might as well do him a favor on your way out."

I stopped what I was doing and looked at that familiar face.

The last shred of hope I'd been holding onto crumbled to dust.

"The Tiancheng account took me eight months to close."

"The contract just cleared processing last week. The first payment hit the account yesterday. By company policy, that commission belongs to me."

The smile on Gretchen's face dimmed.

"Policies are written on paper. People are flexible."

"Julian's taking over all your clients. If his numbers look pathetic right out of the gate, how's he supposed to command any respect? You're leaving anyway. Go out on a high note. Keep things friendly for when you run into people down the road."

"Ms. Barnes."

I lifted my head and cut her off, meeting her eyes squarely.

"Personally, I don't believe my reputation needs to be purchased that way."

My refusal, again and again, finally cracked the mask she'd been wearing. The pretense of goodwill fell away, and raw anger bled through her voice.

"Marcus! Don't push your luck! I'm handing you a graceful exit! Who do you think you are without Lingua Tech? You think anyone in this industry is going to hire someone who burned bridges with their last employer?"

"Who I am without Lingua Tech, I'll find out soon enough. You don't need to worry about that."

"As for the dinner..."

The corner of my mouth curved, just barely.

"I've already sent the address. You pick the time."

Gretchen had probably never been defied like this by me before. Her face cycled between red and white, and it took her a long moment to force words through clenched teeth.

"You've got nerve, Marcus! Fine. Tomorrow night it is! I want to see just how generous you can be!"

By the time I walked out through the front doors, the sky had faded to dusk.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

I pulled it out. Gretchen had sent another message to the company group chat, tagging everyone:

"Tomorrow at six. Everyone shows up on time. Bring your families, bring your friends, the more the merrier. Whoever doesn't come is disrespecting Marcus and disrespecting me! @Everyone"

Below it, replies flooded in: "Got it" "Thanks, boss!" peppered with excited emojis.

I swiped the notification away without responding.

I knew that the higher they were bouncing now, the harder they'd crash tomorrow.

At six the next morning, I dragged my suitcase through the airport doors.

After clearing security, I settled into a seat at the gate and glanced at my phone. A message from Gretchen sat on the screen, dripping with self-importance.

"Marcus, come back now, apologize to Julian properly, and get the performance credit sorted. Do that, and I can pretend yesterday never happened."

Same imperious tone as always. It was almost funny.

My thumb hovered over the screen for a moment. Then I swiped left and deleted the entire conversation.

Ten hours later, the plane touched down at Malé airport.

Tropical air hit me the second I stepped off the jet bridge, thick with the salt of ocean wind and the warmth of equatorial sun.

I powered on my phone and swapped in the local SIM card I'd bought in advance. The moment the network connected, notifications flooded in like a tidal wave.

The work group chat icon pulsed with a red badge, the unread count climbing by the second.

"Let's gooo! Already on my way. Tonight we EAT!"

"Stuck in traffic! Dying over here. I refuse to be late—I'm ordering the most expensive thing on the menu!"

"Who's there already? Snap a pic of the drink list! I heard they've got a bottle of red that goes for eighty grand?"

"Screenshotted the menu. Tonight, we bankrupt Marcus Abbott!"

Julian had posted a posed mirror selfie in the chat.

"Had to clean up a little. Can't embarrass my girl."

Gretchen replied with a hugging emoji:

"Julian looks handsome no matter what he wears."

Below that, a string of fawning replies. "You two are perfect together." "Power couple!" "Goals."

I scrolled on, an amused look on my face.

"We're here! Holy crap, this place is FANCY."

"Where's Marcus? Anyone seen him?"

"Probably not here yet. The man of the hour always shows up last!"

"Right? He's probably at the bank withdrawing cash. A hundred, two hundred grand in bills—you'd need a duffel bag for that."

Gretchen sent a voice message. I tapped it open. Her voice oozed mockery.

"Relax. Marcus said he's treating, so he'll show. Go ahead and order—whatever you want. No need to save him any money tonight."

"The queen has spoken!"

"Well, if you insist! Waiter—ten servings of the top-grade wagyu to start!"

"Lobster! I want the biggest one you've got!"

"This wine right here—eighty-eight thousand a bottle. Pop two of those open!"

The chat devolved into a flood of food photos. An enormous king crab. An artfully plated sashimi platter. A whole roast suckling pig glistening with rendered fat.

Julian, apparently not satisfied, went the extra mile and posted a photo with Gretchen to his social media. The two of them held up wine glasses, the city skyline glittering behind them.

"Another candlelit dinner with my girl. Life is good."

I lifted my wrist and checked my watch. Four in the afternoon, Maldives time. That made it seven in the evening back home.

The latest message in the group chat was Gretchen calling me out directly.

"@Marcus. Where are you? The entire company is waiting."

The corner of my mouth curved upward. I still didn't reply.

After all, the show was only just getting started.

I wheeled my luggage toward the oceanfront villa I'd booked. My phone buzzed a few more times in my pocket. I ignored it.

I changed into a light pair of board shorts and a linen shirt, ordered two bottles of ice-cold beer, and let a full hour drift by before I finally pulled out my phone. I stretched out on a lounger facing the open sea.

By then, the mood in the group chat had shifted.

The parade of food photos had thinned out. In their place came messages tinged with a growing edge of anxiety.

"What time is it now? Is Marcus actually coming or not?"

"His phone's still off. Straight to voicemail every time."

"He wouldn't actually bail on us... would he?"

"Don't even joke about that! With everything on this table plus the drinks—how much is this gonna cost?"

"I just asked the waiter on the down-low. The bill so far is... almost thirty grand."

Messages flooded the group chat, punctuated by exclamation marks.

"The waiter just came by again asking who's covering the check. The look on his face was not friendly..."

"Should we... just split it? Get the bill taken care of first?"

"Split it? Thirty thousand dollars! Do you know what my monthly paycheck looks like?"

"Ms. Barnes told us to order whatever we wanted. No matter how you slice it, she should be the one paying..."

What started as nervous chatter quickly devolved into vicious finger-pointing and blame-slinging.

And one by one, the accusations turned toward Gretchen.

I picked up the ice-cold beer the server had just brought over and took a long sip.

Then I grabbed my phone, snapped a photo of the ocean view stretched out before me, and dropped it into the group chat.

I held down the voice message button and spoke, slow and easy.

"Dear colleagues, I'm really sorry, but I don't think I'm going to make it to dinner."

"Gretchen said we could pick any restaurant we wanted. Her words, not mine. I picked one, sent the address. As for who's covering the bill..."

I paused for a beat.

"Whoever ordered it pays for it."

"Enjoy your meal, everyone."