Three Years of Watching

Elena pushed the spinach around her plate, the emerald leaves glistening with olive oil and regret. Across the table, Marcus adjusted his hat—a brown fedora she'd bought him in Rome, before everything between them had curdled into suspicion.

"You're doing it again," she said softly.

Marcus's hand froze mid-motion. His hair, once thick and dark like hers, had thinned at the temples. Three years of marriage, and somehow they'd become strangers who shared a bed.

"Doing what?"

"Watching me. Waiting for me to slip up."

The restaurant hummed around them—clinking silverware, muted laughter, the jazz trio in the corner playing something that sounded like nostalgia. Elena felt sick. This was supposed to be their anniversary dinner. This was supposed to be a fresh start.

"I hired someone," Marcus said.

The words landed between them like a stone in still water. Elena's chest tightened. She'd known, of course. The little signs: her phone lighting up at odd hours, the sensation of being followed, the way her mail looked slightly tampered with. She'd borne it in silence, telling herself she was paranoid, that grief from her father's death had made her unhinged.

"A spy," she said, not a question.

"I needed to know. After the affair—"

"There was no affair, Marcus."

"I SAW you. With him. Outside that café."

"That was my brother. We were planning Dad's funeral."

The silence stretched, agonizing. Marcus's face crumpled. Suddenly he looked exhausted, like a man who'd been carrying a bear on his back for miles.

"I checked your phone," he whispered. "I went through your emails. I followed you." His voice cracked. "I couldn't bear losing you. So I destroyed us instead."

A piece of spinach caught between Elena's teeth. She could feel it—a tiny, absurd detail in this moment of devastation. She reached for her napkin, needing something to do with her hands.

"You hired someone to watch me," she said again. "To photograph me living my life. To confirm I was the villain in your story."

Marcus reached across the table, his fingers brushing hers. She flinched.

"Can we come back from this?" he asked.

Elena looked at him—really looked at him. The man she loved. The man who'd loved her so desperately he'd torched their marriage trying to save it. Outside, rain began to fall, blurring the city lights into streaks of gold and gray.

"I don't know," she said honestly. "But I think I need to find out. Alone."

She stood up, leaving her hat on the chair. Some things, she realized, you couldn't take with you.