The Sphinx at the Padel Court

Elena's vitamin ritual was the only constant in her disintegrating marriage. Every morning, she'd line up the supplements—B-complex for stress, D3 for the gray London winters, magnesium for sleep—while Marcus's side of the bathroom counter remained empty, his absence already palpable at 6 AM.

"Playing padel with the clients," he'd texted, already three doubles matches deep into his Sunday.

The club's glass walls revealed him laughing with Sarah, his sphinx-like colleague from Mergers & Acquisitions. Sarah, with her unreadable expressions and answers that weren't answers. Elena had nicknamed her 'the Sphinx' months ago—everything she said posed more questions than it resolved.

Elena had hired the detective three weeks ago. Not out of jealousy, but out of necessity. The spy's photos were tucked in her coat pocket: Marcus and Sarah at the club, at the hotel, at that pretentious little bistro near St. Paul's. The detective had followed them everywhere, capturing what Elena already suspected but needed confirmed.

What hurt wasn't the affair. It was the way Marcus looked at Sarah across the padel court—like she was a puzzle he'd finally solved. He'd never looked at Elena like that, even in the beginning, even when she'd tried to be someone worth solving.

The vitamin D capsule stuck in her throat. She swallowed it with champagne from the club's bar, watching Marcus high-five Sarah after their winning point. They moved like they'd been partners for years, their synchronization instinctive, practiced.

Elena's phone buzzed. The spy's final report: "Confirmed. Three months. He's planning to tell you after the holidays."

She ordered another champagne. The sphinx at the net caught her eye and smiled—that inscrutable, knowing smile. Some riddles, Elena realized, weren't meant to be solved. They were meant to be survived.