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."
