The Spinach Incident

The spinach stuck in Marcus's teeth during his promotion toast should have been my first warning. Not about hygiene—he was meticulous—but about how easily he could hide something obvious in plain sight while everyone applauded.

Three months later, I found the pyramid-shaped USB drive in his coat pocket. Corporate espionage, they'd called it when the FBI came. Marcus wasn't just selling insurance algorithms; he'd been building a surveillance pyramid scheme, selling client data up the chain while playing the role of devoted husband at our dinner parties.

"You were my best friend," I told him across the visitor center glass, watching our cat's carrier beside me. Barnaby kept pawing at the metal mesh, confused why his person wasn't holding him. "That's what hurts. Not the spy crap."

Marcus laughed, that same charming chuckle that had won over my skeptical mother five years ago. "Friendship and marriage, Elena. Different things. You were perfect for the life I needed to project."

The lawyer said I'd get half the assets, but some divisions don't split evenly. I kept the apartment, the cat, and the creeping realization that I'd been sleeping with a stranger who pretended to prefer my cooking while actually running a 40-person undercover operation from our guest room.

Now when I buy spinach, I check each leaf obsessively. Not for imperfections—but for the things hiding underneath, green and ordinary, waiting to be discovered too late.