Pyramid Schemes

The sweat on my palm had nothing to do with the Dubai heat. Marcus stood across the net, immaculate in white, the bastard I hadn't spoken to in seven years—not since he'd climbed the corporate pyramid on my back, taking credit for the merger that saved our company and his career simultaneously.

"Your serve," he said, grinning like nothing had changed. Like he hadn't stolen my promotion. Like this wasn't some twisted peace offering arranged by mutual friends who still believed in reconciliation.

The padel court felt absurdly small for all the history compressed into it. Palm fronds rustled above the glass walls, the resort's manicured paradise mocking everything between us. I'd spent years clawing my way back up, rebuilding what he'd taken, becoming the kind of man who could afford weekends in Dubai without checking his bank balance. Marcus had become exactly what our younger selves had sworn never to be: wealthy, hollow, increasingly lonely despite the corner office and the vacation homes.

He missed my return. The ball sailed past him, perfectly controlled. I should have felt satisfaction. Instead, I felt exhausted.

"I'm dying, Sarah," he said softly, retrieving the ball. "Pancreatic. Four months, maybe five."

My knees almost buckled. The palm trees blurred through the glass. All the rage I'd carried like armor suddenly felt ridiculous—pyramid schemes we build in our heads, convincing ourselves revenge matters more than anything.

"Why are you here?" I asked, throat tight.

"Because I needed to know if the man who was my best friend for twenty years was still somewhere inside you," Marcus said, walking to the net. "And because I didn't want to die knowing the last thing I built was something that burned someone I loved."

He extended his hand across the net. My palm was still sweating. Our fingers touched, and just like that, seven years of poison dissolved into the simplicity of old muscle memory.

"Your serve," I said.

He smiled. It reached his eyes this time.