Charging the Bull

The **pool** at the Marriott was empty, thank god. Elena sat on the edge, legs in the water, her iPhone vibrating against the tiled deck. Third missed call from Richard today.

She caught her reflection in the sliding glass doors and froze. Between her front teeth: a fleck of **spinach**, unmistakable and vibrant green, from the kale salad she'd nervously picked at during lunch with the venture capitalists. She'd spent two hours pitching her heart out, smiling, making eye contact, while they stared at her mouth with those polite, predatory grins. Now she understood why.

Richard had been there too—her business partner, the man she'd been sleeping with for six months, the one who'd stopped looking at her like a woman three weeks ago and started looking at her like a liability.

Her phone lit up again. A text: *We need to talk about the term sheet.*

Elena touched her hair. At thirty-eight, the silver threads had started appearing at her temples like cracks in a foundation. She dyed them, hid them, just as she hid the exhaustion that lived beneath her eyes, just as she hid the way her hands sometimes shook when the valuation numbers got too large.

The **bull** market had carried them this far—Richard always said that, always invoked the charging animal as if it were a god they'd appeased through sacrifice and late nights. But markets turn. Bulls fall.

She stood up, water dripping from her calves, and reached for her phone. The spinach was still there, mocking her. She could rinse it out, pretend it never happened, go back upstairs and let Richard talk her into whatever deal he wanted. That was the pattern.

Instead, Elena typed back: *No. I'm done.*

She blocked his number. Then she walked to the mirror, smiled at herself—spinach and all—and for the first time in years, didn't look away.