Goldfish Memory

Emma swallowed her **vitamin** D supplement with the same grim determination she applied to everything else at forty-two: necessary, unglamorous, and performed alone in front of her bathroom mirror. The bottle beside it contained something far more dangerous than biotin.

Her **hair** had started silvering at the temples two years ago—around the same time she'd promoted Marcus to senior analyst. Now those silver strands caught the morning light as she stared at her reflection, considering the USB drive in her palm.

Marcus had been her **friend** for seven years. They'd shared drinks after quarterly reviews, mourned failed projects over bad Thai food, celebrated each other's promotions. He'd been the one to suggest they start documenting everything after the merger began. "Just good practice," he'd said, handing her the secure drive. "For both of us."

He hadn't mentioned he'd also been meeting with corporate compliance every Friday morning.

The goldfish in Emma's office aquarium circled its bowl in endless loops, its three-second memory a blessing she sometimes envied. She'd bought it on impulse during the pandemic—something alive that wouldn't demand anything from her. Now it watched her pack her box with that same blank, orange stare.

She wasn't a spy. That was the worst part—she was just convenient. Marcus had built his reputation on her work, then sold her out to protect himself when the audit began. The drive contained evidence of the side project she'd trusted him with. The project that was actually his.

Her phone buzzed. Marcus: *Coffee? usual spot?*

Emma dropped the USB drive into her coffee mug, watching it sink into the dark liquid. The goldfish swam past, oblivious. Some creatures lived entire lives in bowls, never realizing they were being watched.

She typed back: *Can't. Busy.*

Then she deleted her response, blocked his number, and called legal.