The Corporate Palm Reader

Marcus adjusted his tie in the reflection of the vending machine, then swallowed his daily **vitamin** D supplement with a grimace. At forty-two, maintaining the facade of corporate wellness had become a full-time job in itself. He wasn't actually sick — just tired of the relentless scrutiny that had consumed his marriage since Elena's promotion six months ago.

They'd met at this same company fifteen years ago, fresh-faced and optimistic. Now Elena sat two floors above him, running the division that Marcus had been passed over for. The irony wasn't lost on either of them.

"You're not a **spy**, Marcus," she'd told him last night, her voice heavy with that particular exhaustion only marriages of long duration can cultivate. "You're my husband. You're allowed to ask me about my day."

But the gap between them had grown like a slow-moving fissure. Marcus found himself noticing things: the way she kept her phone screen down during dinner, the new **orange** scarf that appeared in her wardrobe without explanation, the late nights blamed on "critical deliverables" that never seemed to materialize in shared documents.

He'd started lingering outside conference rooms, pretending to check emails while actually straining to catch fragments of her meetings. Pathetic. He knew it was pathetic.

The company holiday party should have been safe territory. Open bar, stale hors d'oeuvres, the ambient hum of forced festivity. But Marcus saw Elena by the **palm** tree in the lobby, leaning in too close to David from Marketing. Her hand brushed his arm, lingering.

The drink in Marcus's hand suddenly felt insufficient.

He made his way through the crowd, each step heavier than the last. He should walk away. Should demand answers publicly. Should do anything except what he actually did: stood beside them and said, "Getting started early?"

Elena turned, her smile faltering for just a second before reconstituting itself. "Marcus! David was just telling me about the new analytics platform. You should hear this."

David's eyes shifted between them, reading the tension like a street-market psychic. "I'll get another round," he said, disappearing into the crowd.

Elena's hand found Marcus's, her palm cool and familiar against his. "I know what you're thinking," she whispered.

"Do you?"

"You're still wondering why they chose him instead of you."

Marcus exhaled, something in his chest unclenching. She wasn't wrong. The suspicion was real, but so was the disappointment that had curdled into resentment, into this detective work he'd been conducting.

"I hate vitamins," he said suddenly.

"What?"

"That vitamin I take every morning. I hate it. But I keep pretending it's helping something."

Elena squeezed his hand. "Let's go home, Marcus. We can stop pretending."