The Sphinx in the Palm Court

Mia sat beneath the swaying palm fronds, nursing her third gin and tonic as the resort's ceiling fan sliced through the humid air. The corporate retreat had been her idea—a desperate attempt to salvage their failing merger—but now, watching Julian weave through the tables like a fox who'd found the henhouse, she wondered if she'd made a terrible mistake.

He stopped at her table, that inscrutable smile fixed in place. Julian was twenty years her senior, a man whose colleagues called him the Sphinx behind his back because no one could ever read what he was thinking. Mia had spent three years trying.

"Celebrating or drowning sorrows?" he asked, sliding into the chair beside her. Too close. Always too close.

"Just appreciating the ambiance." She gestured toward the sunset painting the sky in bruised purples and bleeding oranges. "You should be with the others. Toasting your victory."

His hand covered hers where it rested on the table—palm to palm, warm and possessive. "There is no victory without you, Mia."

The words hung between them, loaded with everything they'd never said. Three years of late nights, shared hotel rooms, fingers brushing against documents, the way his gaze lingered just a second too long. She'd told herself it was professional admiration. She'd lied.

"I saw the amended terms," she said, pulling her hand away. "You're cutting my department out of the deal."

The Sphinx's expression didn't shift, but something flickered behind his eyes. "Business isn't personal."

"No." She stood up, her legs steady despite the gin. "Business is exactly what we made personal."

She left him there beneath the palms, letting the fox contemplate his empty victory. Some riddles answer themselves.