Chlorine and Supplements

Sarah found the bottle in Marcus's bathroom cabinet, tucked behind his electric toothbrush. Vitamin D3, 5000 IU — the same dosage her own doctor had prescribed after she'd complained about fatigue and bone pain three weeks ago. Marcus had never mentioned seeing anyone.

Through the window, she watched him by the pool, laughing as he taught their eight-year-old daughter Maya how to hold a padel racket. The thwack of ball against racket punctuated his instructions. Sarah had refused to play when he'd installed the court last summer. Too tired, she'd said. That was before the diagnosis, before she'd confided in him about her symptoms during their Sunday matches.

"I've been feeling the same way," he'd told her then, his forehead creased with concern. "Maybe we should both get checked out."

She'd given him access to her client accounts at the firm when her energy crashed. "Just until I'm back on my feet," she'd said. He'd promised to handle everything.

The vitamin bottle was still sealed. The expiration date was six months out.

Sarah opened her phone and pulled up the email Marcus had sent from her account last week, arranging a private meeting with her biggest client. Found the follow-up note in the firm's system: "Sarah's been struggling with health issues. I'll handle the transition."

He wasn't taking vitamins. He wasn't sick. He was taking her accounts.

By the time she returned to the poolside, Maya had gone inside to change. Marcus sat alone on the edge of the chaise, watching the water ripple in the afternoon breeze.

"You're back early," he said, not turning.

"Did you ever make that doctor's appointment?" Sarah asked.

He froze. "What?"

"The vitamins, Marcus. They're still sealed."

The silence stretched between them, broken only by the pool filter's steady hum. Finally, he laughed — a dry, humorless sound. "You're checking my medicine cabinet now?"

"You used my illness to take my clients."

"I was protecting them," he snapped, standing up. "You haven't been yourself. You're missing deadlines, forgetting calls. I did what needed to be done."

"We were supposed to be friends."

"Friends don't abandon friends when they get sick," she said. "And friends don't profit from it."

That evening, after Maya was asleep, Sarah typed out a message: "I'll handle her padel practice from now on. And I'll see you at the office on Monday to discuss the transition back."

Then she deleted his contact, opened her own vitamin bottle, and took two with a glass of wine. The pool glowed through the sliding doors, blue and perfect and utterly empty.