The Cost of Pride

The bar's neon sign cast an orange glow across Marcos's face as he slid into the booth opposite Elena. Three years since they'd spoken, and he looked exactly as she remembered—charming, reckless, wearing that arrogance like a second skin.

"You came," he said, gesturing for the waitress. "Friend, I knew you wouldn't leave me hanging."

Elena's fingers tightened around her water glass. The condensation cooled her palms, but nothing could cool the anger still simmering beneath her ribs. "That's not what I am anymore. Not after what you did."

Marcos ordered whiskey, straight. "Still holding onto that bull? I told you, the hedge fund imploded. Nobody saw it coming."

"You stole my clients," she said, her voice steady despite the memories threatening to spill over. "You used our friendship to get access, then you poached them one by one. That's not a market crash, Marcos. That's betrayal."

He laughed, that same boyish laugh that had once made her trust him with everything. "It's business, Elena. You're too sensitive. Always have been."

The waitress dropped off his drink. His hand shook slightly—just a tremor, but she noticed. The sleeves of his expensive shirt were frayed at the cuffs. He'd picked up the check, but the way he'd hesitated before handing over his credit card told her everything.

"How's the portfolio?" she asked, though she already knew.

His jaw tightened. "Rebuilding. Always rebuilding."

"The SEC investigation—"

"Was bullshit." His voice rose. "They couldn't prove anything."

Elena finished her water, standing slowly. "They didn't need to. You did enough damage to yourself."

"Wait." He caught her wrist. "I need capital, Elena. Just enough to get back on my feet. You know I'm good for it."

She looked at his hand gripping her arm, then up at his desperate eyes. The man who'd built an empire on other people's money was now begging for scraps. But she'd learned her lesson about trusting bulls.

"The water's warm, Marcos," she said quietly. "Eventually, you'll have to learn to swim."

She walked out into the night, leaving him alone with his whiskey and his ghosts, the orange neon flickering like a warning she should have heeded years ago.