The Golden Cellar
The champagne was cold, a fact that suited the cellar, and I stood near the vintage bin, watching the light from the chandeliers fracture against the wet stone, trying to calculate the precise moment when my career would either ascend or dissolve into the same murky sludge that coated the floor. I was forty-two, a senior actuary with twenty years of spotless service, and I wanted the title of...
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