The Palm Reader's Warning

The reception was exactly as Marcus had imagined: too much champagne, not enough honesty. He adjusted his cufflinks, caught his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows. The orange sunset spilled across San Diego like wine on a tablecloth—beautiful, but someone would have to clean it up later.

"You're hovering again," Elena murmured, appearing beside him with two flutes. She'd always been able to read him like a—well. Like a palm reader who'd actually seen the future.

"I'm working," Marcus said, though he took the champagne.

"You're spying, you mean. On a woman who's done nothing but give you a career."

He swallowed the irritation along with the expensive bubbles. "That's rich, coming from someone who forwarded my entire proposal deck to competitors last quarter."

Elena's smile didn't reach her eyes. "We all have our reasons."

Marcus watched Clarisse across the room—his boss, his mentor, the target. She was laughing with someone from acquisitions, her hand resting casually on their arm. Last week, he'd found the encrypted file on her desktop. Tomorrow, he'd either deliver it to corporate or confront her. Option one paid the mortgage. Option two felt like something his father would have done, before the drinking and the departure.

"Your father called," Elena said softly, reading something else now. "Asked if you'd reconciled with Clarisse yet. Said he misses his grandson."

Marcus set down his glass. "How did you—"

"I have my ways." She touched his wrist, her palm warm against his skin. "Choose carefully, Marcus. This job isn't worth losing yourself over."

Outside, someone walked a golden retriever along the beach path. The dog stopped to bark at seagulls, utterly unburdened by corporate espionage or family estrangement or decisions that would hollow out his life regardless of which path he chose.

At dinner, Clarisse served herself more spinach, commenting on its health benefits while Marcus watched her throat move, thinking about how easily trust could be severed. She smiled at him over the candlelight, and he wondered if she'd hired someone to follow him too, if they were all just playing roles in some increasingly expensive tragedy.

"Marcus?" she asked. "You haven't touched your wine."

"Just thinking about choices," he said, as the last of the orange light faded from the sky, taking with it all the easy answers he'd pretended still existed.