The Last Vitamin

Elena found the vitamin bottle on his nightstand—a D3 supplement she'd never seen before, the pharmacy label faded. She'd been taking prenatal vitamins for three months, trying to conceive, while Marcus's evening routine had become increasingly mysterious. He claimed he was working late at the tech startup, but his phone stayed password-protected, facedown on the dresser.

She'd started running again, dawn laps around their gentrifying neighborhood, feet pounding pavement while questions looped in her head. The morning air tasted metallic, like the blood in her mouth from biting her tongue.

That's when she noticed the cable guy—third time that month—climbing the telephone pole outside their bedroom window. Same van, different uniform patch. Elena waved from her driveway. He froze, then scrambled down like she'd caught him stealing, not installing fiber optics.

"Just checking the lines, ma'am. Signal's been spotty."

She watched him drive away, then called the provider. They hadn't dispatched anyone in weeks.

That evening, Marcus came home reeking of coconut water and sweat, racquet bag slung over his shoulder. "Padel with the guys," he said, peeling off his shirt. Elena traced the fresh bruises on his ribs—shaped like fingers, not sports injuries.

"You're missing your vitamin," she said, tossing him the D3 bottle from his nightstand. His face went pale, then cold.

"Elena—"

"The cable guy's a spy, isn't he? Corporate espionage? Or are you the spy?"

Marcus's silence stretched like a pulled wire. Then: "It's not what you think."

She'd been running from the truth for months. Their marriage, their carefully curated life, all sustained by a cocktail of denial and vitamins she couldn't even name. She grabbed her running shoes and bolted into the night, leaving Marcus holding a vitamin bottle that had never contained anything but microphones.