The Spy Who Loved Me

I stared at the glass of water on my nightstand, watching condensation trace paths down the curve like tears I couldn't cry. Thomas was asleep beside me, his breathing rhythmic and maddeningly peaceful. But I knew better. I knew what he did when he thought I wasn't watching.

The vitamin bottle on his dresser had been my first clue. He never took supplements before, but suddenly he was obsessed with health, with energy, with staying sharp. At first, I thought it was sweet—middle-age concern manifesting as care. Then I noticed the timing. Every dose coincided with his late-night work sessions, the ones where he'd retreat to his home office and disconnect the ethernet cable from our shared network.

A spy. My husband of twenty years was a corporate spy, selling pharmaceutical secrets to competitors. I'd traced the deposits, found the encrypted messages, watched through cracked doors as he packed and unpacked his laptop bag with the precision of someone carrying contraband.

What he didn't know was that I'd been watching longer than he realized. I'd been the one who'd tipped off his competitors, offered them better terms. My vitamin supplements weren't for health—they were for the chemotherapy I'd started two months ago, the diagnosis I hadn't shared. The cancer had returned, and I needed money for treatments our insurance wouldn't cover. His secret corporate espionage had become my golden parachute.

Tonight, I watched him sleep and felt nothing but the weight of water in my lungs, the way betrayal becomes breathable, becomes essential. In the morning, I'd disconnect the cable for good. In the morning, I'd tell him everything. But for now, I let him believe he was the spy in this marriage, and I let myself believe this water on my nightstand was simply water.