The Spy Who Loved Padel

Elena adjusted her mirrored sunglasses on the lounge chair, the midday sun glaring off the infinity pool's blue surface. Beside her, Marcus was already stretching—those damn calves that had first caught her attention three months ago at the padel club. He'd approached her after her match, claiming to admire her backhand. She'd fallen for it, and him, with the naive enthusiasm of someone who hadn't had her heart thoroughly dismantled in years.

Now she knew better. The private investigator's dossier lay in her beach bag under a towel: Marcus Volkov, corporate intelligence operative, currently contracted by BioSyn—the very company whose merger proposal she'd been evaluating as CEO. Every shared dinner, every whispered confidence after sex, every moment of vulnerability she'd offered up had been filed away in reports. She was a job.

'You coming?' Marcus called from the padel court, waving his racquet. 'Or are you going to brood by the pool all day?'

Elena stood, her movements deliberate. She considered confronting him—screaming, throwing things, making a scene. But she'd learned the hard way that giving away your hand got you nowhere in business, and apparently, in love. Instead, she walked toward him, already planning the counteroffer she'd leak to BioSyn's competitors tomorrow morning. Let him report that.

'Marcus,' she said, stepping onto the court, 'you're full of shit.' She smiled. 'And I've never admired that about anyone.'

He faltered, racquet lowered. 'What?'

'The bull you've been selling me since February.' She took her position at the baseline. 'Your backhand isn't even that good.'

His face went through several microexpressions before settling into something like admiration. 'Fair.' He returned her smile. 'So what now?'

'Now,' Elena said, 'we play. And then you're going to tell me who's paying you, and I'm going to make them regret it.' She served hard—straight at his chest. Some games, you played to win. Others, you played to survive. This one was both.