The Foliage of Regret

Marcus stood at the edge of the infinity pool, the water stretching toward an ocean that refused to meet it. The corporate retreat had been his idea—his desperate attempt to prove he still had the fire that had earned him the corner office at thirty-five. Now, at forty-two, watching his colleagues' reflections ripple across the surface, he felt hollow.

"You're going to have to bear the weight of this quarter's numbers," his CEO had told him that morning, her voice like crushed ice. Marcus had nodded, feeling the familiar pressure in his chest, the same tightening that had started when his marriage dissolved three years ago.

He checked his phone again. No response from Elena. The last text had been two weeks ago: *I need space.* He'd given her space, all right—enough space to fill the empty half of their California king bed.

"Marcus." Sandra's voice behind him. She was the office fox, thirty and sharp-edged, the kind of woman who'd climbed faster by knowing which throats to cut. "Robert wants a word by the palm trees."

He followed her across the deck, his palms sweating despite the coastal breeze. Robert sat beneath one of the resort's manufactured palms, nursing a scotch that was definitely not his first.

"Sit," Robert said, gesturing to the empty lounge chair. "We need to talk about the London position."

Marcus's heart lurched. The promotion he'd been promised—or the gentle push out the door?

"It's yours if you want it," Robert continued, not meeting his eyes. "But you'll need to decide by Monday. We're announcing restructuring."

London. A fresh start. Or another city to be lonely in.

That evening, Marcus found himself back at the pool. The water was still, black glass reflecting a sky full of stars he couldn't name anymore. He dipped his hand in, watching the ripples distort his reflection.

His phone buzzed. Elena. *

I'm seeing someone.

* The words hit him like physical blows. He sat there until dawn broke, until the pool caught fire with the morning light, and he realized that sometimes the thing you've been bearing—waiting for, hoping for—has already moved on without you.