The Riddle at Sunset

The betting pool had reached twelve thousand dollars. That was how much the trading floor was wagering on when Marcus would finally crack. He'd been the sphinx of the office for fifteen years—impassive, inscrutable, watching from his corner office like some ancient statue posed with an impossible riddle.

Now, as Elena sat beside him at the rooftop pool, nursing her third vodka tonic, she watched the sky turn that bruised orange color that meant twilight was giving way to something darker. The pool's surface rippled with reflected light, distorting their ghosts.

"They're saying it's eighty percent you'll be gone by Monday," she said, not looking at him. "I put fifty on Tuesday."

Marcus finally turned. His face, usually that marble mask, cracked into something like relief. "Good. That means I win my own pool."

She stared. "You bet against yourself?"

"Two grand on Friday. I knew you'd be the one to finally ask."

The orange glow deepened, catching the wet tear track on Elena's cheek. She hadn't realized she was crying. Marcus reached across the space between their lounge chairs, his fingers brushing hers.

"The sphinx's riddle wasn't 'what walks on four legs then two then three,'" he said quietly. "It was always: what's worth keeping when everything else is just noise?"

"And?"

"And I'm done keeping secrets from you. The job, the money, the performance—it's all just the setup for the real question. Do you want to get out of here?"

Elena looked at the water, at their distorted reflections swimming together in the fading light. The betting pool didn't matter anymore. The sphinx had finally spoken.

"Yes," she said. "Yes, I do."

They stood, leaving their drinks behind, and walked away from the orange light sinking below the city skyline.