In a way, fraud in business is no different from infidelity in

Host: The boardroom was a strange kind of confessional — all glass and silence, the air sharp with the smell of paper, ink, and the faint ghost of ambition. Outside, the city pulsed — neon and noise, movement and motive. But inside, everything had stopped.

It was late. The clock on the wall ticked with surgical precision, its rhythm slicing through the tension that hung like fog.

Jack sat alone at the long table, a contract in front of him, his reflection staring back from the polished surface — tired eyes, unshaven jaw, a man dissected by conscience. The file bore a name he knew too well: his own.

Jeeny entered quietly, the echo of her heels soft against the marble floor. She carried no judgment, only that quiet steadiness of someone who had seen too many people at war with themselves.

Her voice came low, like a verdict delivered in mercy rather than wrath:

“In a way, fraud in business is no different from infidelity in marriage or plagiarism in scholarly work. Even people committed to high moral standards succumb.” — Miroslav Volf.

Jack didn’t look up. His hand tightened around the pen.

Jack: “You think he’s right?”

Jeeny: “He’s not moralizing, Jack. He’s warning. About how easy it is to slip — even when you swear you’d never cross the line.”

Jack: “I didn’t slip. I calculated.”

Jeeny: “So did every cheater, every thief, every liar who told themselves it was for survival.”

Jack: bitterly “You make it sound like sin comes with spreadsheets.”

Jeeny: “It does. These days, it always does.”

Host: The city lights outside flickered faintly across the glass walls — streaks of gold and blue moving like restless spirits. The documents on the table seemed to glow under the harsh fluorescent light.

Jeeny walked closer, her tone steady but not unkind.

Jeeny: “You didn’t plan to commit fraud, did you?”

Jack: quietly “No. It started small. One harmless adjustment in the numbers. A rounding error that smoothed the edges.”

Jeeny: “That’s how it begins — with the lie that looks like efficiency.”

Jack: “And then?”

Jeeny: “Then convenience becomes habit. Habit becomes justification. Before long, the man in the mirror’s a stranger you call pragmatic.”

Jack: “You sound like a priest.”

Jeeny: “No. Just someone who’s been the stranger.”

Host: The rain began against the windows — a slow, rhythmic tapping that sounded almost like judgment in a softer form.

Jack exhaled, leaning back, the chair creaking beneath his weight.

Jack: “It’s strange. I always thought of morality as armor. But it’s more like glass — strong until it cracks.”

Jeeny: “And once it does, it doesn’t shatter immediately. It spiderwebs. Slowly.”

Jack: “You’re saying I was already cracked before I signed anything.”

Jeeny: “We all are. The world trains us to admire success more than sincerity.”

Jack: “And the higher you climb, the better you get at disguising decay.”

Jeeny: softly “Yes. And you start calling the disguise integrity.”

Host: The light in the room flickered, casting their reflections onto the glass wall — two figures surrounded by a city that looked as if it were made of the same fragile material as truth.

Jeeny took a seat across from him. Her hands rested calmly on the table.

Jeeny: “You know, Volf wasn’t condemning the fallen. He was warning the faithful — the ones who thought they were immune.”

Jack: “So I’m proof of his point.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe you’re proof of what happens after — that the fall doesn’t have to be the end.”

Jack: “You believe that? After this?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because morality isn’t proven by never breaking. It’s proven by what you do after you realize you have.”

Jack: “Redemption through ruin.”

Jeeny: “Redemption through honesty. That’s harder.”

Host: The rain intensified, streaking the glass like veins of silver. The world outside looked blurred now — the clean lines of the skyline dissolving into something softer, more human.

Jack ran a hand through his hair, the pen still in his other hand — as if it held the weight of everything left to decide.

Jack: “You ever notice how people say ‘it’s just business’ to excuse anything?”

Jeeny: “Yes. As if profit were absolution.”

Jack: “I used to believe that. I thought morality was flexible, like market trends. You bend it, it rebounds.”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t rebound, Jack. It bruises. And sometimes bruises become permanent.”

Jack: “Then what’s left to do?”

Jeeny: “To stop lying — not to others, but to yourself.”

Jack: sighs “You make repentance sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It isn’t. But it’s real.”

Host: The clock on the wall struck ten. Each sound echoed longer than it should have, bouncing through the hollow room like a reminder of time’s neutrality — how it neither forgives nor condemns, only continues.

Jeeny: “You know, infidelity, plagiarism, fraud — they all come from the same place. The desire to take what isn’t yours without facing who you’re becoming.”

Jack: “And who am I becoming?”

Jeeny: “Someone who’s tired of pretending.”

Jack: after a pause “Maybe that’s a start.”

Jeeny: “It always is. Confession isn’t weakness — it’s an act of reclamation.”

Jack: “You sound like you’ve forgiven me.”

Jeeny: “Forgiveness isn’t mine to give. But understanding is.”

Jack: quietly “Then I’ll take that.”

Host: The rain slowed, tapering into quiet. The city outside flickered, washed clean.

Jack stood, gathered the papers, and without ceremony, tore them in half — slow, deliberate, the sound sharp against the silence.

Jeeny watched him — no applause, no relief, only that small, knowing look that comes when someone finally chooses truth over convenience.

Jack: “You think this fixes it?”

Jeeny: “No. But it stops it from spreading.”

Jack: “And the rest?”

Jeeny: “That’s the work. Integrity isn’t what you have — it’s what you rebuild.”

Host: The camera would pull back slowly — the two figures small against the vast glass wall, the city glowing behind them like a living conscience.

The shredded paper lay scattered across the table — pieces of confession, fragments of repentance.

And as the room fell into stillness, Miroslav Volf’s words lingered in the air — sober, human, and true:

that moral failure is never foreign,
that temptation wears the face of reason,
and that even those who aim high
can fall low —
but rising again begins with the moment you stop pretending the fall didn’t happen.