Dinner went as awkwardly as expected.
Margaret dominated the conversation, bragging about her neighbor’s son who had just been promoted. When I tried to share about my own work — how I had closed a big deal that day — Mark interrupted.
“She’s been lucky lately,” he said, chuckling. “But let’s see if she can keep it up.”
Lucky. That’s how he described years of my hard work.
I tried to brush it off, focusing on my meal. But then the waiter came by with a bottle of red wine. Margaret smiled. “Oh, Mark, let’s celebrate your promotion! Pour us all a glass.”
Mark lifted the bottle and began pouring. Then, just as the waiter turned away, he “accidentally” tilted it too far — and a cascade of red splashed all over my dress.
The deep burgundy soaked through the cream fabric instantly. Gasps filled the restaurant. I froze.
“Oh my goodness,” Margaret laughed. “Mark, really! You’ve ruined her dress. But maybe red suits her better — hides the wrinkles.”
They laughed together. They actually laughed.
My throat burned. My eyes stung, but I refused to cry in front of them. I grabbed a napkin, dabbed at the stains, and stood up slowly.
Mark looked up at me with that smug, dismissive smirk. “Relax, Emily. It’s just a dress. You overreact about everything.”
I smiled — calmly, coldly. “You’re right,” I said softly. “It’s just a dress.”
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