The Last Asset

The spinach wilted in the pan, reminding me of exactly how I felt after fifteen years as a corporate spy. I watched steam rise from the water beneath the colander, thinking about all the people I'd betrayed, all the secrets I'd sold to the highest bidder. Tonight's target had been different—an old flame who'd built herself into the pyramid's apex while I remained in its basement, trading dignity for scraps of information.

Her cat had watched me through the window as I'd photographed documents on her desk. The animal's yellow eyes had seemed to recognize me, perhaps sensing the familiarity in my movements, the way my hands still knew where to place things, how to leave no trace. Sarah had always loved cats. She'd said they understood loyalty better than humans ever could.

I drained the water from the spinach, my phone vibrating on the counter. Another client wanting more, faster, cheaper. They always wanted more. The corporate structure was designed this way—a pyramid where everyone climbed over everyone else, and I was just the tool they used to destabilize their competitors.

Sarah had made it out. She'd built something real, something honest. And now I'd been hired to tear it down, to find evidence of noncompliance, to manufacture scandal where none existed. The file I'd stolen would destroy her company, her reputation, everything she'd worked three decades to build.

The spinach sat limp and gray on my plate. I thought about the cat again, about recognition, about how some animals never forgot a scent. Sarah wouldn't forget either. She'd know who had betrayed her—again.

I picked up my phone and deleted the photos. Then I called my handler and resigned. The spinach would be cold, but for the first time in years, something in me finally felt warm.