The Glass Palm

The letter opener pressed into her **palm**, cold and accusatory. Elena sat in her corner office, thirty floors above the city, watching the morning fog burn off the harbor. Below, early **swimming** enthusiasts dotted the dark water like tiny, determined specks.

"You're my oldest **friend**," David had said last night, his hand warm on her knee at the bar where they'd celebrated her promotion. His smile had been genuine, or she'd thought so then.

Now the private investigator's file lay open on her desk. David wasn't a friend at all. He was a corporate **spy**, hired by their competitor eighteen months ago to infiltrate Elena's team. Every late-night brainstorming session, every vulnerable confession over drinks, every trade secret she'd shared—he'd cataloged it all. The files included copies of emails she'd never meant anyone else to see.

Her **cat**, Buster, jumped onto the desk and nudged her hand, purring oblivious to corporate betrayal. Elena stroked his soft fur, remembering how David had pretended to be allergic just to avoid coming to her apartment. Another lie in a tapestry of them.

She considered calling security, exposing him at the morning meeting. But something else crystallized in her mind as she looked at the surveillance photos of David meeting with their competitor's VP—photos David himself had helped her obtain last month when she'd suspected someone else of espionage. The irony was almost poetic.

Elena closed the file. She placed David's resignation letter in the outgoing mail slot, along with a generous severance package she'd prepared after her first suspicion months ago. She'd known since January. Had let him think he was winning, had fed him carefully curated misinformation that was now costing his employer millions in failed bids.

The bar last night hadn't been a celebration—it had been a goodbye, of sorts. She'd given him one perfect evening before she destroyed him professionally. When security escorted David out an hour later, confusion warring with recognition on his face, Elena watched from her window, the letter opener no longer feeling like a weapon at all, but simply what it was: a tool.