The Geometry of Loss

The padel court echoed with the sharp *thwack* of racquets against ball, a rhythm that had once synced perfectly with our marriage. Now, Marco played alone on the other side of the net, his movements fluid and careless, while I watched from beneath the palm trees that lined the resort's perimeter, their fringed leaves rustling in the Caribbean breeze like whispered apologies.

I bore the weight of his confession from three nights ago—he'd been building a pyramid scheme beneath our legitimate import business, siphoning money into accounts that would eventually collapse. Not because he needed more. Because he'd become addicted to the architecture of deception itself.

"You're too quiet, Cara," he called out, sweat glistening on his chest. "Join me."

His smile was the same one that had convinced me to invest my inheritance, the same one that had charmed investors, the same one that now felt like a weapon. I remembered watching him present his business model on a whiteboard two years ago, drawing that triangular structure with steady hands. We stood at the apex then—or so I'd thought. Now I understood I was just another level in his foundation, someone to bear the weight when it inevitably came down.

"I'm good here," I said, my fingers tracing the patterned bark of the palm beside me. The tree felt more honest than anything he'd said in months.

Marco's return volley went wide. The ball sailed past him and landed at my feet. He didn't chase it. Instead, he walked to the net, leaning his forearms against the tape, his face suddenly stripped of its practiced charm. "I did it for us, Cara. To get us ahead."

"You did it because you could," I said. "Because you liked watching people believe you."

His eyes dropped to the court surface. "The FBI is scheduled to interview me Tuesday."

I picked up the ball, its fuzzy surface worn from use. "I know. I'm the one who called them."