Corporate Espionage & Canapés

Elena smoothed her silk dress, palms sweating despite the venue's aggressive air conditioning. The tech launch party swirled around her—VCs in expensive suits, founders pontificating about disruption, waiters circulating with trays of miniature spinach tarts she couldn't bring herself to touch.

"You're being watched," Marcus murmured, slipping behind her at the bar. His cologne smelled like sandalwood and betrayal. "Industrial spy, third row. Gray suit, looking at your iphone like he wants to memorize your passcode."

She'd hired Marcus three months ago as her VP of Operations. They'd ended up in bed after the quarterly review, tangled in sheets and whispered confessions about lonely marriages in the Bay Area. He made her laugh—rare, these days. He noticed when she stopped wearing her wedding ring.

"Paranormal Activity," she'd joked last week, showing him the viral video of her golden retriever staring at empty corners of their apartment. "Buster senses spirits. Or maybe he's just a dog with excellent comedic timing."

Now Marcus guided her toward a palm reader setup in the corner—someone's idea of quirky networking entertainment. His hand lingered on her lower back, proprietary and warm. "Let me distract you. Get your future read."

The psychic was a blur of scarves and excessive eyeliner. She took Elena's hand, traced the life line with manicured nails. "You're at a crossroads," she intoned. "Professional success, yes. But someone close isn't what they seem. Deception coming from an unexpected quarter."

Elena laughed nervously. "Classic cold reading. Everyone thinks they're being deceived."

But later, in the restroom, she found it: Marcus's iphone on the counter, unlocked. A notification lit up the screen—encrypted message app, name redacted, but the message visible: *Project Artemis specs secured. Phase complete. Payment wired as agreed.*

Her heart cracked sideways. Not the affair she'd suspected—worse. He was selling her company's classified product specs to their biggest competitor. All those late nights, those intimate conversations about product strategy—he'd been mining her for intelligence.

The spinach tart she'd finally eaten turned to ash in her stomach.

She returned to the party with摄影师's eyes, watching him work the room. Gray suit from the third row approached, handed off an envelope. Marcus's palm brushed it casually—money, or maybe more data. He caught Elena's gaze across the crowd and smiled, that warm, devastating smile that had made her trust him.

Buster would've known. Dogs always know.

Her iphone buzzed: her husband asking when she'd be home. For the first time in six months, she typed back immediately. *Leaving now. Want to talk.*

Corporate espionage, she could handle. The personal wreckage—that would take longer to sweep up.