Citrus at Midnight

The orange sat on the granite counter, impossibly bright against the muted tones of their kitchen. Elena had bought groceries yesterday. She would have remembered an orange.

Marcus was already in bed, or so he'd claimed when she'd come home late from the merger that wasn't a merger. The due diligence team had found discrepancies—someone was funneling IP out of the biotech division. Three years of marriage, and she still couldn't read him in the dark.

Their golden retriever, Banjo, lifted his head from the dog bed but didn't stir. The animal had stopped greeting her at the door two months ago, around the time Marcus started working "late" on the aerospace project.

Elena peeled the orange. Its scent hit her—citrus, acid, something almost violent. She remembered the corporate spy they'd caught at her last firm, leaving signals in the breakroom. A coffee mug turned sideways. A fruit arranged just so.

Marcus's phone buzzed on the nightstand through the open bedroom door. She didn't move. Just ate the orange, section by section, letting the juice sting her fingers.

She'd always told herself love was trust. But trust was just the absence of proof.

Banjo whined, then stood and padded to the back door. The security light flickered on, casting shadows across the yard. Someone had been there—maybe.

Elena wiped her hands on a paper towel. The orange peel lay on the counter like something undone. Tomorrow she'd hire the forensic accountant. Tonight she'd climb into bed beside Marcus and pretend to sleep beside a stranger she'd chosen.

The dog settled again. Somewhere, a car engine started. In the morning, there would be explanations, or there wouldn't. The orange had already told her everything she needed to know.