One woman coughed to hide a laugh.
Daniel stared at his wife.
“Can we not do this tonight?”
Vanessa kissed his cheek.
“You’re too sensitive.”
Dinner began.
I said almost nothing.
Because inside my handbag was a folder containing eight months of restaurant statements.
Designer handbags charged as “branding materials.”
A luxury resort weekend labeled “client development.”
Spa treatments.
Jewelry.
Private transportation.
Forty-eight thousand, six hundred and twelve dollars.
All paid from a business already struggling with food costs.
Daniel had been working fourteen-hour days, believing the restaurant’s margins were collapsing.
Vanessa knew exactly why.
Halfway through dinner, she glanced at my dessert.
“Chocolate cake?”
I looked at her.
