"My husband gave me just 200 dollars to arrange his mother’s birthday celebration for 30 guests and said, “Cover the rest yourself. You always find a way.” This time, I followed his instructions exactly… and when the family saw the table, no one could keep pretending anymore.

The municipal basement felt smaller by the second, suffocating under the weight of exposed lies.

Richard Dupont, a prominent city councilman, cleared his throat. “Eleanor, we’re leaving.”

“Wait! Richard, please!” Brandon scrambled after them, abandoning all dignity. He reached out to grab Dupont’s arm, but the older man yanked his sleeve away as if avoiding contamination. “It’s a misunderstanding! We had reservations at the Valley Club, but Gwen cancelled them behind my back to make me look bad! I swear to you!”

Arthur Vance stepped into Brandon’s path, his gaze hard and merciless.

“Brandon,” Arthur said, his voice quiet enough to chill the room. “Did you or did you not tell the partners on Thursday that you had reserved the terrace room at Brookside for your mother’s party?”

Brandon swallowed hard. His throat bobbed. “Arthur… look, Brookside had a scheduling conflict—”

“Brookside had no conflict,” Arthur said coldly. “My wife is on the hospitality committee there. She told me yesterday that nobody named Vance had booked a private dining room for today. I thought there was an administrative error. Now I see the truth.”

“Arthur, please, let’s talk in the office on Monday—”

“No, Brandon. We’ll talk now,” Arthur said, glancing around the bleak concrete room, at the plastic forks and the steaming industrial urn. “You’ve been billing three thousand dollars a month to the firm’s entertainment account for ‘client dinners.’ Dinners that you claimed were generating high-net-worth leads. But looking at this… looking at how you treat your own wife and mother… I have to wonder where that money actually went.”

Brandon’s knees seemed to buckle. He leaned against the wall for support, his eyes wide with rising panic. “Arthur, that’s business! This is personal! You can’t mix the two!”

“A man who defrauds his own wife out of eight years of savings to maintain a fake image is a man who cannot be trusted with my clients’ capital,” Arthur said, turning on his heel. “Do not come into the office on Monday, Brandon. Leave your firm laptop and your building pass on your desk by eight o’clock tomorrow morning. We are initiating an internal audit.”

“Arthur! No! Arthur!” Brandon shouted, but Arthur Vance didn't look back. He walked up the concrete steps, followed closely by the Duponts and the rest of Rosalind’s high-society friends.

Within two minutes, the room had emptied of all guests.

Only Rosalind, Heather, Brandon, and Gwen remained.

Rosalind sank onto one of the metal folding chairs, heedless of the dust staining her emerald silk dress. She buried her face in her manicured hands and began to wail—a shrill, broken sound of absolute vanity ruined.

“My reputation…” she sobbed. “Forty years in Pasadena society… ruined by a girl from Glendale…”

Heather glared at Gwen with pure hatred. “Are you happy now? You destroyed Brandon’s job! You destroyed my mother’s standing! You’re evil!”

Gwen slung the strap of her green binder over her shoulder. She picked up her car keys from the table.

“The water is hot,” Gwen said pleasantly, gesturing to the steaming urn. “Make sure you unplug it when you’re done. The rental deposit is on my card, and I’d hate to lose fifty dollars because you left it running.”

She turned and walked toward the stairs.

“Gwen!” Brandon roared, his voice cracking as he chased after her. “Get back here! We’re married! You can’t just walk out after doing this!”

Gwen stopped on the bottom step and looked back over her shoulder.