The Palm Reader's Last Party

She wasn't running away—that's what she told herself, standing by the balcony railing, her third champagne flute sweating in the heat. Marissa had simply chosen to arrive early, before the real crowd descended. Before *he* arrived.

The party was at Eduardo's place, naturally. His broker friends called him "The Bull" behind his back, something about how he charged through markets and relationships alike, leaving destruction in his wake. Three years ago, Marissa would have laughed at that nickname. Tonight, she just watched the way the sunset turned the horizon a bruised orange, the same color as the cat that appeared from nowhere and wound through her legs.

"You're here early," said a voice behind her.

She didn't turn. "Some of us still work for a living, Eduardo."

He laughed, that sound she'd once found charming. Now it just reminded her of breakfast cereal commercials. "Still reading palms at corporate retreats? That's cute."

"It pays better than you think." She turned then, and there he was—older, softer at the edges, still wearing that suit like it was armor. His eyes dropped to her hands, wrapped around the champagne glass. "Still wondering why your life line splits into two paths?"

He flinched. Just microscopically. The cat leaped onto the balcony railing between them, tail twitching.

"I hired you because you were the best," he said quietly. "That weekend in Cancun, the palm trees, you told me—"

"I told you what you paid to hear. Same as everyone else." She set down her glass. "The difference is, you believed it."

"I still do." He reached for her hand, his palm warm against hers. "That's why I'm here. Why I asked you to come."

The cat yawned, stretched, disappeared into the party swelling behind them. Inside, someone was pouring another round of drinks, laughter spilling onto the balcony like liquid.

Marissa pulled her hand away. "You're not running away, Eduardo. You're running in circles."

"Then run with me," he said, and the terrible thing was that she almost considered it. Almost remembered the way he'd looked at her that night in Mexico, palm fronds overhead, his thumb tracing the lines on her hand like he was learning braille, like her future was something he could read if he just touched her enough.

Instead, she picked up her champagne. "The Bull charges. He doesn't run."

She walked into the party, into the noise and heat and possibility, leaving him alone on the balcony with the orange sky and the sudden understanding that some futures, once read, cannot be unread.