The Last Riddle

Marcus stood before the floor-to-ceiling window of his corner office, watching the city lights flicker like dying embers. At forty-seven, he'd conquered every market his company touched. They called him 'the Bull' on Wall Street—relentless, charging through obstacles, scattering anyone who stood in his path. But tonight, the title felt hollow, a costume that no longer fit.

His eyes drifted to the crystal bowl on his mahogany desk. Inside, a single goldfish traced endless circles in water that had grown cloudy with neglect. Elena had bought it during their tenth anniversary trip to Coney Island, laughing as she won it in a rigged carnival game. 'Seven seconds of memory,' she'd whispered against his ear that night. 'Imagine being able to forget everything that hurts every moment.' It had been three months since she left, and Marcus found himself envying the fish.

The intercom buzzed—his assistant reminding him of tomorrow's board meeting. Another acquisition. Another victory that would feel like defeat.

He turned away from the window and caught his reflection in the glass: temples streaked with silver, eyes that had forgotten how to smile. Behind him, in the corner of his office, stood the bronze sphinx he'd purchased in Cairo after closing his first international deal. For years, he'd kept it as a trophy, proof of his power to travel wherever he pleased, conquer whatever market he chose.

Now it seemed to be watching him, ancient and inscrutable.

Marcus approached the desk and sprinkled flakes into the bowl. The goldfish rose to the surface, mouth opening and closing in silent rhythm. He remembered the sphinx's riddle: what walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in the evening?

The answer was man. But the real question, he realized, was what happened after sunset—when you were alone in a kingdom you'd built stone by stone, and none of it could fill the space beside you in bed.

He picked up his phone, scrolled to Elena's number, and pressed call.