The Last Tapas

Elena sat across from Marcus at their usual corner table, the tapas bar's golden light softening the sharp angles of his face. He'd been her friend for seven years, since the Barcelona office where they'd both been recruited by Horizon Corp.

"I know what you are," Marcus said, not unkindly. He speared an olive, his gaze steady on hers. "Corporate spy. Probably Sentia Global, maybe one of the Chinese firms. Doesn't really matter."

Elena's hand froze halfway to her wine glass. She'd been careful—too careful, she'd thought. "Marcus—"

"Don't." He set down his fork. "I'm not turning you in. I just needed you to know that I know."

They'd met at a rescue fundraiser three years back, bonding over a half-blind dog named Rufus who'd climbed into Elena's lap and refused to leave. Marcus had adopted him the next week. Last year, when Marcus's marriage imploded, Elena had spent three weeks on his couch with takeout and whiskey, listening to him rewrite the narrative of his life.

"Why tell me now?" she asked.

"Because next week I'm up for VP. Security clearance deepens." He signaled the waiter for the check. "And because whatever Sentia's paying you, it's not worth losing this. Us."

Elena felt something hollow open in her chest. She'd been playing the game so long she'd forgotten what winning looked like.

"There's a cat in my building," she said suddenly. "Orange tabby. Shows up at my door every Tuesday. I don't even like cats."

Marcus smiled, almost. "Rufus likes her. They commune through the glass."

"You knew."

"I know a lot of things about you, El." He stood, shrugged on his coat. "Your briefing packet's on my desk. Third drawer, behind the hanging files. Take it. Tell them you recruited me instead."

She stared at him. "You'd blow your career."

"Friendship's expensive." He dropped euros on the table. "I'm in."