The Golden Handshake

Marcus arranged his face into something resembling enthusiasm as he walked toward the padel court. The corporate retreat had been his wife's idea—something about networking while pretending to enjoy team sports. Three partners from the firm were already there, their matching white outfits blinding in the Mexican sun.

"Your backhand's improved," Elena called from across the court. She'd made partner last year, climbing the pyramid faster than anyone in the firm's history. Marcus had trained her himself. They'd celebrated over tequila that night, and he'd woken up the next morning with a hangover and a promotion he didn't remember asking for.

"Learned from the best." Marcus returned the serve, the ball cracking against the racket like a small thunderclap.

He'd noticed it three weeks ago: emails forwarded to personal addresses, files accessed after midnight, client lists mysteriously appearing with competitors. The pattern was unmistakable once you knew to look. Someone was feeding information. Someone with access to everything.

"You've been quiet lately," Elena said during the water break, her hand lingering on his arm. "Everything okay?"

"Never better."

She'd bought him this trip. The beachfront villa, the private courts, the endless champagne flowing like she was trying to keep him too distracted to notice anything wrong. Or maybe too drunk to care.

That evening, a storm rolled in off the ocean. Marcus watched from the terrace as lightning fractured the sky, illuminating the distant pyramid of the Mayan ruins they'd visited yesterday. Elena appeared behind him, two glasses of wine in hand.

"I know you found the logs," she said softly. The playful tone was gone.

Marcus turned. "You sold us out. Five years of work, five years of trust—"

"They offered me equity. My own firm." She set the wine down untouched. "I was going to take you with me. We built this together, Marc. We could've built the next one together too."

"As partners? Or as the spy and the mark?"

She didn't answer.

"I'm not reporting you," Marcus said, watching the storm approach. "But I'm not going with you either."

The first heavy drops began to fall as Elena walked away. Marcus finished his wine and wondered how many of his promotions, how many of his successes, had been engineered by someone playing a longer game than he'd ever realized.

The padel match tomorrow would be awkward, he thought, setting down the glass. But at least now he knew the score.