The Late Match

The orange glow of sunset stained the horizon as Elena stepped onto the padel court, her racquet grip worn smooth from years of Thursday matches with Marcus. He was already there, stretching against the chain-link fence—that easy smile she'd trusted for five years since they'd become friends at the firm.

"You're distracted," Marcus said, returning her serve with unexpected aggression.

Elena missed. The ball skittered into the corner. "Just tired. The merger—"

"The merger's exactly why we're here, remember?" His voice dropped, something predatory beneath its usual warmth. "Need to keep appearances up."

They played in silence after that. Elena's cat, Bastet, had been acting strange all week, crying at nothing, hiding under furniture. Animals sensed things humans couldn't. Now she watched Marcus's movements—the way his eyes tracked her opponents from the neighboring courts, the subtle signals he made between points.

Later, over gin and tonics at the club bar, Marcus leaned in. "You know what they're saying about you at headquarters."

Her blood turned to ice. "Who's 'they'?"

"Corporate security." He swirled his drink. "They found the emails, Elena. The encrypted folder on your desktop. The one you thought nobody knew about."

Every instinct screamed. She'd never had encrypted folders. Never sent suspicious emails. Unless—

"You're the spy," she realized, her voice steady despite the hammering of her heart. "You planted it."

Marcus's face didn't change. "They offered me your position. The promotion you've been working toward for three years." He signaled the bartender for another round. "I'm giving you a chance, Elena. Walk away before the investigation drops."

The orange sunset had faded to gray. Outside, a stray cat cried in the parking lot—something wounded and betrayed.

"Five years," she said. "We played padel every Thursday. I trusted you."

"Business isn't trust." He finished his drink. "It's leverage. And now, so am I."

Elena stood up, her legs steady. "Call them. Tell them you were mistaken. That you found the real source."

"Or what?"

She smiled, something cold and precise. "Or I tell them about the Cayman account. The one you think nobody knows about."

Marcus went still. His face, in the bar's harsh light, showed her everything—fear, then respect, then the terrible understanding that this game had just changed.

"How did you—"

"Animals sense things," she said, thinking of Bastet hiding beneath the furniture all week. "And sometimes, friends do too."