The Vitamin Deficit

The vitamin bottle sat on the counter—Sarah's special blend, shipped monthly from some boutique lab in Zurich. That was the first thing Marcus noticed when he came home at 3 PM on a Tuesday. The papaya she'd been slicing sat abandoned on the cutting board, its flesh already oxidizing to an unappetizing gray where the knife had paused mid-cut. Buster, their golden retriever, didn't greet him at the door. That was the second thing.

Marcus worked as a senior researcher at Vitalis Corp. Sarah, he'd believed, was a freelance nutritionist. They'd met three years ago at a conference on synthetic peptides, her laugh bright against the sterile hotel carpet. She'd seemed perfect—attentive, curious, genuinely interested in his work on the new protein synthesis formula. He'd told her things he shouldn't have. Laboratory procedures, security protocols, the projected timeline for their breakthrough.

The dog whined from the bedroom. Marcus followed, his chest already tightening with something that felt like grief but tasted like betrayal.

Sarah's laptop sat open on the bed. She hadn't even bothered to lock it. Email after email, timestamps stretching back months, encrypted attachments routed through servers that traced to competitor firms. Not just competitor firms—Pyramid Pharmaceuticals, the same company that had tried to poach him twice, the one with the ethics violation scandals, the one that would destroy everything Vitalis had built if they got their hands on his research.

The last email was dated this morning. "Phase complete. Extraction scheduled for Thursday. Asset remains compliant."

Marcus sat on the edge of the bed, Buster pressing against his leg. He'd been the asset. The vitamins, the papaya breakfasts she insisted were "antioxidant-rich, darling," the way she listened so intently when he talked about work—it had all been reconnaissance.

His phone buzzed. A text from Sarah: "Running late, meeting with a client. Order takeout?"

Marcus typed back, fingers steady despite the hollow feeling spreading through him. "Thai sounds good."

Then he called corporate security.

The dog licked his hand, and Marcus thought about how easily love could be manufactured, how completely he'd let himself be surveilled in the name of being cherished. He'd almost admire her professionalism, if his heart wasn't busy breaking.