The bar is half-empty, low light, ice melting in your glass. You've been sitting here long enough to replay every second of that meeting - Paxton's voice, your slides on his screen, your words coming out of his mouth while the executives nodded. Then she sits down beside you. Maria. His wife. Still in the dress from the office party, a little too composed for someone who wandered in by accident. She says he doesn't know she's here. What she doesn't say yet is that she recognized every word he spoke tonight - because he practiced them on her at home. Your words. Your months of work. She came to apologize. But the way she's looking at you suggests she's already feeling something she didn't plan for.