The amber light above our table suddenly felt ten degrees hotter.

The dessert menu was a leather-bound trap.

Mason immediately pointed a manicured finger at the page. “I want the triple-chocolate molten cake with Madagascar vanilla bean ice cream. And a double espresso.”

“Make that two,” Chloe added without looking up from her phone. “And do they have macarons? Bring a plate of those for the table.”

Raymond waved a hand generously at the server. “Bring whatever the kids want. Bring the Grand Marnier soufflé for me and Travis. And a round of port wine to finish things off.”

The server jotted it down, though I noticed a slight twitch in his left eye. Servers at The Gilded Ox didn't usually deal with tables where people ordered three-digit bottles of wine and then acted like they were at an all-inclusive resort buffet.

“And for the little ones?” the server asked, glancing down at Noah and Sophie, who were quietly drawing pictures on their paper placemats with orange crayons.

“Oh, they don't need dessert,” Raymond waved him off. “They’ve had enough junk food today. Let’s keep them quiet.”

Noah stopped drawing. He didn't look up, but his crayon paused against the paper, pressing down just a little too hard until the wax snapped in half.

I reached across the table, gently taking the broken crayon from his small fingers and setting it aside.

“Actually,” I said, speaking up for the first time in twenty minutes. “My kids would love dessert. Sophie, do you want the strawberry tart?”

Sophie’s eyes widened. “Is there real strawberries on it?”

“Real strawberries and whipped cream,” I smiled.

“Yes, please!”

“And Noah? You want the chocolate pudding cup with the cookie crumbles?”

“Can I get sprinkles?” Noah asked, hope flickering in his voice.

“As many sprinkles as they have in the kitchen,” I told him.

The server smiled—a genuine, warm smile this time. “I’ll make sure the pastry chef puts an extra-large scoop of sprinkles on that, buddy.”

Raymond scowled, leaning forward over his water glass. “Ethan, why are you deliberately trying to run up the bill? I said we’d handle dessert for everyone, but there’s no reason to spoil them rotten.”

“Don't worry about it, Raymond,” I said smoothly, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms. “Like you said, family takes care of family. And tonight, I’m feeling extraordinarily careful.”

Raymond narrowed his eyes, sensing something in my tone that he couldn't quite place, but he brushed it off with a dismissive snort. He assumed, like he always did, that the rest of us were financially incompetent satellites orbiting his sun. He assumed I was just being petty about the chicken fingers.

He had no idea what an accountant does when he gets bored during a three-hour family dinner.

While the table dissolved back into conversations about college football and upcoming vacation plans, I mentally itemized the receipts. I factored in the city tax rate of eight percent. I factored in the twenty-two percent large-party gratuity that The Gilded Ox automatically slapped onto any table over six people.

The total was sitting right around eight hundred and fifty dollars.

For Raymond, who bragged about his quarterly bonuses on group chats, eight hundred dollars wasn't bankruptcy. But it was enough to sting. It was enough to make him choke on his Grand Marnier soufflé when he realized who was paying for it.

The server returned twenty minutes later, balancing a tray loaded with molten cakes, strawberry tarts, soufflés, and a towering cup of chocolate pudding covered in so many multicolored sprinkles it looked like a confetti bomb had detonated in the dairy aisle.

Noah gasped, his hands flying to his mouth in pure, unadulterated joy.

“Look, Dad! It’s amazing!”

“Eat up, buddy,” I said softly.

Across the table, Mason stabbed a fork into his molten cake, letting the warm chocolate ooze out onto the ceramic plate. Chloe took a quick photo of her espresso cup for her Instagram story, adding a geotag that cost more than my first car.

Raymond sat back, looking extremely pleased with himself, basking in the glow of being the provider, the big man, the patriarch holding court over a sea of empty plates and expensive glassware.

He didn't notice when I slipped my wallet out of my jacket pocket.