Orange Hour at the Pyramid

The orange light of sunset spilled across the pyramid-shaped glass tower, turning the corporate headquarters into something almost sacred. Elena watched from across the street, her third gin and tonic sweating on the bistro table. She wasn't supposed to be here—that was the whole point of being a good spy, remaining invisible—but some boundaries deserved crossing.

Marcus had chosen this restaurant for their anniversary dinner three years ago. They'd talked about baseball, his childhood obsession with the Red Sox, how the rhythm of the game reminded him of everything orderly in the world. Now he was on the forty-second floor of that pyramid, probably explaining to some boardroom full of suits why he'd sold out their shared dreams for a promotion and a corner office.

Her phone buzzed. Unknown number. She ignored it.

The cat that lived behind the restaurant—an ancient, battle-scarred tomcat with one ear—jumped onto her chair, regarding her with yellow eyes that seemed to know too much. She'd started leaving food for him during lunch hours when she'd first begun surveilling the building. Some habits stuck.

"You getting comfortable too?" she murmured, scratching behind his ears. "Wait until you see what happens when you let someone inside your defenses."

The front doors of the pyramid opened. Marcus emerged, alone, adjusting his tie like he always did when he was nervous. He'd told her once that baseball players had their rituals to ward off chaos. She'd thought it was charming then. Now it just seemed like another performance.

The cat leaped down as she stood, her heart doing that complicated thing it always did when she saw him—love and loss braided together so tightly she couldn't pull them apart. Some pyramids were built of stone, others of choices that seemed small until they buried you.

She signaled the waiter for the check. Some innings you had to walk away from, no matter how much you still loved the game.