Served Cold

The **spinach** salad was a mistake, Elena decided, watching Richard chew with that practiced corporate smile. Three years of marriage, seventeen of combined corporate ascent, and she still couldn't tell if he actually liked anything she made.

"Your **hair** looks different," he said, not looking up from his plate. "Good."

She'd spent three hours at the salon that morning. The cut was severe—short enough that she'd felt a draft on her neck when she walked to the car.

"Thanks."

They were at the resort's restaurant, surrounded by swaying **palm** trees and people who mattered. The company retreat. Richard's idea. A whole weekend of mandatory networking and strategic relationship building, which mostly meant watching senior partners get progressively drunker on overpriced wine while pretending nothing was crumbling.

"**Padel** at four?" Richard asked. "Mark and Janet from the London office."

Elena nodded. They'd been paired for the tournament bracket. She'd seen Janet crying by the pool earlier that morning, makeup running down her face like black tears. Mark had been in the bar, ordering doubles.

The storm broke an hour before their match. Elena stood on their balcony watching **lightning** fork across the sky, thinking about how her husband looked at her now—like she was an asset he was still calculating the depreciation on.

Inside, Richard's phone buzzed. He didn't answer. Just stared at it while the rain washed the patio clean.

"Who is she?" Elena asked, and the lightning flared again, illuminating everything she'd stopped allowing herself to see.

Richard's mouth opened, closed. Whatever he'd been about to say—denial, confession, some carefully crafted corporate statement—died in his throat. Elena found herself almost smiling. She'd forgotten how honest weather could be.

The tournament was cancelled. She packed alone, listening to the rain, and left him there with his unanswered phone and his strategic silence. Some things, she decided, shouldn't be salvaged.