Man in the Mirror

Rain beat down on the cracked pavement outside Moore & Sons Banquet Hall, turning the streetlights into bleeding halos.

Inside, laughter echoed off marble floors, champagne flutes clinked, and the smell of money hung heavy in the air.

Stephen Brooke stood by the buffet table, his only suit damp at the cuffs. The laughter wasn’t for him. It was at him. “You really think fixing cars counts as ambition, Stephen?”

Patrick Moore leaned against the bar, gold watch catching the light. “Man, this city eats dreamers for breakfast.”

Stephen forced a smile. “Dreamers built this city.”

“Yeah,” Patrick grinned, “and then real men bought it from them.”

The table of guests chuckled. Stephen felt the heat climb his neck, but he kept quiet. Tonight was supposed to be his night, 

Alina’s birthday. His wife. The woman he’d worked two jobs for, skipped meals for, loved harder than life itself.

But she was across the room now, laughing with Patrick’s business partner, Damian Cross, the man who’d sold Stephen the “investment deal” that vanished with every dollar he owned.

“Stephen,” Alina called out suddenly, her tone sharp. “Come here a sec!”

He walked over, heart already sinking. She looked perfect, sequined dress, curls brushed over one shoulder, a glass of champagne in hand. Perfect for a woman who’d just told him, before they came, “Don’t embarrass me tonight.”

“Tell them your big idea,” she said sweetly. “The one about starting your own auto business.”

Stephen blinked. “Now?”

“Yes, now.” She smiled, but her eyes cut like knives. “Maybe someone here can invest. You know, since that last opportunity didn’t go so well.”

The laughter that followed was slow, spreading like wildfire. Damian chuckled into his drink. Patrick slapped his knee. Even her mother, Mrs. Denise Moore, smirked over her glass.

“I didn’t lose hope,” Stephen said quietly.

“No,” Alina said, voice dripping honey and venom, “you just lost money.”

More laughter. The world tilted slightly. He could taste metal in his mouth, humiliation, raw and bitter.

He looked at her, really looked: the coldness in her eyes, the way she fed on their mockery. And in that instant, something inside him began to break.

He turned to leave, but Damian stepped in his way. “Relax, Brooke. We’re just having fun,” Damian said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Lighten up, man. You take yourself too seriously.”

“You’re right,” Stephen said, his voice steady now. “Maybe that’s my mistake, taking people like you seriously.”

The air went still. “Excuse me?” Damian’s grin faltered. “You heard me.”

Alina hissed under her breath. “Stephen, stop it. You’re embarrassing me.”

He turned to her, the rain now roaring against the windows like applause from ghosts. “No, Alina,” he said quietly. “You did that for both of us.”

The silence that followed was a knife. Then Patrick laughed again, forced, mocking. “Look, man, don’t get sensitive. It’s just jokes.”

Stephen didn’t reply. He walked past them, straight into the rain. His phone buzzed in his pocket, a message from the bank: “Transaction declined. Account balance: $14.72.”

The last of his savings. Gone. He didn’t stop walking. Not when Alina called his name, not when Damian shouted something behind him. The night swallowed his footsteps.

And in the distance, thunder cracked, like a promise forming in the dark.