The Sphinx's Last Riddle

Elena sat across from Marcus, watching his eyes trace the patterns in her spinach salad. They were at that bistro downtown, the one with the velvet booths and too-loud jazz, where she'd first agreed to become his dog.

"You're not eating," Marcus said. His voice had that same sphinx-like quality that had seduced her three years ago—cryptic, commanding, always with an unspoken riddle beneath.

"I'm thinking." Elena pushed a spinach leaf around her plate. "About what you said in the meeting. About bull markets and opportunity."

Marcus's fork paused. A fox caught in headlights, just for a moment. Then his mask slid back into place. "The numbers don't lie, Elena. You know that."

"The numbers." She laughed, a sharp sound that turned heads. "You mean the projections you asked me to fabricate?"

Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. The jazz seemed to mock them.

"I did what was necessary," Marcus said quietly. "For us. For the team."

"For your bonus."

"Elena—"

"I'm done being your riddle solver. Done pretending your bullshit is wisdom." She stood up, leaving her uneaten spinach, her unfinished life with him. "The sphinx doesn't have any more answers for me."

Outside, the city air hit her like revelation. She was thirty-two, starting over, terrified and alive. For the first time in three years, she wasn't following anyone's lead. She wasn't anyone's dog.

Her phone buzzed. Marcus, of course. Always circling back, like a bull convinced the fence was still there. She blocked him without reading the message.

The spinach lunch had cost her everything. And it was worth every bite.