The Palm Reader's Warning

The corporate hierarchy was a pyramid, and Marcus had built his empire on our backs. I should have believed the palm reader at the company holiday party—the one who took my hand, traced the life line with a weathered finger, and whispered: "Someone close wears two faces."

Now, in the dim glow of the restaurant, watching Marcus laugh with his hand on his wife's shoulder, I finally understood.

"You've got spinach," I said, gesturing to my own teeth.

His wife, Sarah, laughed and handed him a napkin. The moment hung there—domestic, tender, completely at odds with what I'd discovered that morning.

I'd found the encrypted files on his computer while fixing a presentation glitch. Competitor bids. Internal documents. Everything uploaded to a server traced to a shell company. Marcus had been feeding our secrets to the highest bidder for three years.

He was a fox in the henhouse, and I'd been the one who left the door open. I'd covered for his absences, vouched for his judgment, defended him when the board questioned the leaks.

"Everything okay?" Sarah asked, sensing my mood.

Marcus met my gaze over his wine glass. He knew I knew. The calculation behind his eyes was cold and precise—weighing whether to offer me a cut, or threaten me into silence.

The palm reader had also told me something else: "You'll choose yourself in the end."

I finished my wine, set down the glass. "Never better," I said, and made my decision about what to do with the evidence in my pocket. Some betrayals cut both ways.