The Palm Reader's Warning

The LA sun beat down on Elena's neck as she sat across from Marcus at the outdoor cafe, his Porsche keys gleaming on the table like a promise of everything she'd spent thirty years chasing. He'd been her anchor through the divorce, her **friend** when she'd had none, the one person who never mentioned the scandal that had cost her the partnership track.

"My mother always said I'd never hold onto anything good," Elena said, tracing the condensation on her glass. "She **bear**-hugged shame like it was a lover."

Marcus reached across the table, turning her hand over. His thumb pressed into her **palm**, sending electricity up her arm. "That's why you need someone who sees what you're trying to hide."

The kiss was inevitable, devastating—his five o'clock shadow against her skin, the scent of expensive cologne and desperation. But as his hands moved to her waist, her phone buzzed. Sarah, her twenty-three-year-old analyst: "They know about the Bear Creek account. Did you tell Marcus?"

Elena pulled away. Marcus's expression didn't change. That was the thing about predators—they never looked surprised when the trap snapped shut.

"You were never my friend," she whispered, standing up. The **bear** she'd been carrying all these years—the shame of her mother's mental illness, the fear that she'd inherited it—suddenly felt lighter. Because failure was familiar. Betrayal by someone she'd trusted? That was new territory.

Marcus shrugged. "Business is never personal, El."

She walked to her car without looking back, her **palm** still tingling where he'd touched her, knowing she'd spend the rest of her life wondering if the electricity had been real or just another form of collateral damage from a man who'd never lost anything he couldn't afford to lose.