The Unspoken Score

The dog arrived at the worst possible moment — just as Elena's racket connected with the padel ball, sending it skimming past Marco's defense. A golden retriever, well-groomed and evidently belonging to someone at the resort, trotted onto the court and sat with expectant eyes, as if waiting for applause.

"Game point," Elena said, though the triumph felt hollow. She wiped her sweating palms on her skirt, avoiding Marco's gaze. The palm trees lining the court cast long shadows in the fading light, their fronds stirring in the evening breeze.

Marco laughed, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You always had that killer instinct. Remember the company softball tournament? You took out the CFO's shin trying to reach home plate."

"Baseball," she corrected automatically. "And he walked fine the next week. You're the one who insisted I'd 'managed the situation poorly' in my performance review."

That was the thing about Marco — he could weaponize anything. A childhood game, a casual match, their marriage. He'd called her ruthless once, meant as a compliment. Now it sounded like an indictment.

"I was looking out for you," he said, and there it was — the fox in the henhouse routine. The plausible deniability. The way he'd turned every conversation about her feelings into a referendum on her character.

The retriever nudged her ankle with its wet nose, and she looked down. Its collar read "Buster."

"He likes you," Marco said. "Animals always do. Remember how my mother's cat hated everyone but you? She said you had a gentle soul."

Elena felt something crack open in her chest. That cat had died three years ago. Three months before Marco told her he'd been seeing someone from accounting. A year before she found out it had been happening since the beginning.

"Your mother's cat scratched me on our first visit," she said quietly. "I still have the scar."

Marco frowned. "What? No, she —"

"I didn't want to make a bad impression. So I bandaged it and hid it and let everyone believe what they wanted." She gathered her things. "I think I'm done playing games where the rules keep changing."

Buster followed her to the gate. As she unlatched it, she looked back at Marco silhouetted against the resort lights, finally still. Finally small.

"The dog," she said. "Which villa?"

"Why?"

"Because he deserves better than someone who forgets what he needs." She stepped through the gate. "And so do I."