The Formal Dinner Escape

The dinner is polished. Too polished.
Everyone is smiling the way people do when they want to be photographed smiling.

Your dress fits like it was built onto you by a master craftsman. His suit’s tailored within a breath of divinity.

And yet—
You can’t stand another moment of sitting next to a senator who pronounces "sovereign" like it’s French.

Your eyes meet Michael’s. You don't speak.
Your hand rests on the linen, two fingers gently tapping once—twice.

That’s all it takes.

He places his fork down. Straightens his cuffs. Leans toward the man next to him, murmurs something polite.
Then rises with such silent authority the entire table subconsciously adjusts their posture.

You’re already waiting near the corridor.

“Elevator’s this way,” you say.

“I know,” he says. “You think I’d let you sneak off without me?”