Jessica never hid her distaste for my lifestyle. To her, a man with oil-stained hands and a patched leather vest was an embarrassment, especially in front of her country club circle.

She invited me to an upscale restaurant, claiming it was her treat, a peace offering of sorts. I should’ve known better. As soon as the $3,000 bill hit the table, she excused herself, saying she needed the restroom, and never came back.

The real plan? Leave me stranded, force me to grovel or get arrested, and give her a perfect excuse to ban me from their high-society wedding. Through the fine crystal glass, I caught my own reflection, aged and roughened by time.

Behind me, the restaurant staff grew restless. The manager was on the phone, probably calling the police. The maître d’, flanked by security, approached with the usual fake politeness.

“Sir, it seems there’s an issue with your payment?”

For illustrative purposes only.