The Palm Reader's Last Betrayal

The water glass trembled in Elena's hand, condensation slick against her palm. She watched him across the crowded restaurant—the man she'd married seven years ago, now wearing a fedora hat that seemed ridiculous in the age of smartphones.

He thought he was being clever. The spy who thought he was the player, not the played.

"Your husband's been selling corporate secrets," the woman had said yesterday, pressing a business card into Elena's hand. "We're not talking about trade recipes. We're talking about defense contracts. People die."

Elena had laughed then. Marcus? Her bumbling, charming husband who couldn't keep a surprise party secret?

But then she'd found the encrypted files on his laptop. The offshore accounts. The photographs of documents he'd never had clearance to access.

Now Marcus was checking his phone again, smiling at something on the screen. Probably another encrypted message from his handlers. Elena felt a strange calm settle over her—like watching a storm approach through a window, safe and distant.

Their cat, Barnaby, was probably waiting at home. Marcus had bought him as an anniversary gift, claiming pets brought couples closer together. Another calculated move, like everything else.

"Everything okay?" Marcus asked, reaching across the table.

Elena pulled her hand away. "Fine. Just thinking."

"About what?"

"About how you never learned to read palms," she said quietly. "If you could, you'd have seen this coming."

He frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She stood up, leaving her half-full water glass behind. "It means I already talked to them, Marcus. They're offering immunity for testimony. The deal expires at midnight."

The restaurant noise seemed to vanish. His hat—God, that ridiculous hat—slipped slightly as his face went pale.

"Elena—"

"Save it for the federal agents," she said, walking toward the door. "I already packed your bags."

Outside, the night air was cool. She didn't look back.