The Chlorine Lie

The corporate retreat had seemed like a brilliant idea three weeks ago, when Karen first suggested the wellness weekend. Now, standing by the pool in my one-piece swimsuit, watching colleagues float on inflatable unicorns, I felt only exhaustion.

'You need more **vitamin** D,' Marcus had told me that morning, pressing a bottle of supplements into my hand. 'You're looking pale.' He'd been my **friend** since we'd both started at the firm five years ago, the person who'd covered for me when I missed deadlines, who'd brought me coffee during late nights. But something had shifted.

My **hair** slicked back wet against my neck, I'd caught him watching me differently lately. Not with friendship, but calculation. The way he studied me when I worked on the Anderson account. The way he asked too many questions about my passwords and access levels.

'Jump in!' Karen called from the **pool**, her blonde curls plastering her face like a golden helmet. 'The water's perfect!'

I'd almost joined her, almost let myself believe in team bonding and wellness culture and all the corporate bullshit we sold to clients. But then I'd seen it—Marcus's phone screen glowing as he typed in the hot tub, my private emails reflected in the glass. The **spy** software installed on my workstation, traced back to his IP address.

The **vitamin** supplements he'd given me? Placebos, according to the lab I'd secretly visited. Just another way to monitor me, track my movements through my bathroom breaks.

'Coming!' I'd called, stepping toward the water. But instead of diving in, I'd walked to the edge of the pool where Marcus sat, drink in hand, and dropped the evidence onto his lap. His phone logs. The spyware files. The employee handbook section on termination for cause.

Some **friend**, I'd thought, watching his face drain of color as the corporate lawyer's number burned on my screen. Some wellness weekend.

The water looked inviting, but justice would feel better.