The Orange Hour

The office betting pool had reached $4,200 by the time Elena found the envelope under her keyboard. Nobody knew who ran it—just a spreadsheet that appeared magically in the breakroom, tallying wagers on which senior VP would be the first to go. The bull market for corporate layoffs had returned to Merriweather & Co.

She slipped into the courtyard at 6 PM, when the sky turned that bruised orange color that made everything look simultaneously beautiful and dying. That's when she saw him—Marcus from Compliance, leaning against the service entrance, smoking.

"You're the spy," she said, not a question.

Marcus exhaled, studied her through the smoke. "Someone had to track who was meeting with whom. Who was updating their LinkedIn. Who stopped wearing their wedding ring."

"And the envelope?"

"Your turn." He flicked his cigarette onto the pavement. "Next week's slate. Bradley's been coming in drunk. Chen's interviewing with Amazon. And Davidson—" he paused, smile sharp as a fox's grin—"has a side business we can't afford to ignore."

Elena opened the envelope. A single photograph: Davidson, their department head, wrapped around someone who wasn't his wife, pool edge glimmering behind them, sunset bleeding across the water.

"I know that woman," she said quietly.

"That's why I gave it to you."

The weight of it settled in her chest—what she knew, what she could use, what she'd become. This wasn't just workplace gossip anymore. This was ammunition.

"What's the split?" she heard herself ask.

"Fifty-fifty. We leak it Monday morning. Stock dips, we buy in. Or you go to HR. Your call, Elena."

She looked at the orange light fading from the sky, the courtyard empty but for the two of them and all the things they'd do to survive this place. Marcus watched her with patient eyes, and she realized she wasn't the person she'd been when she walked through Merriweather's doors five years ago.

She wasn't sure she'd ever be that person again.

"Monday," she said, pocketing the photograph.