Tropical Betrayal

The papaya was too ripe, its flesh collapsing under Elena's fork like a guilty conscience. She pushed it around the plate, watching Marcus across the hotel restaurant. He was laughing at something the VP from accounting said, his head tilted back just enough to reveal the thin silver chain around his neck—the one she'd given him three months ago, after they'd closed the Melbourne deal and ended up in his room.

They'd gone swimming together that night in the hotel pool, weightless and drunk on success and champagne. He'd told her he loved her, or something close enough that she'd let herself believe it.

Now she knew better.

The private investigator's report sat in her phone, unread but weighty. Marcus wasn't just sleeping with the competition. He was their spy, funneling proprietary research to his actual employer—the same company that had underbid them on three contracts this quarter. The spinach in her salad looked impossibly green, almost artificial under the restaurant's harsh lighting. She speared a leaf, chewed mechanically.

He caught her eye. The smile didn't reach them.

"Everything okay, El?"

"Just tired," she said, surprised by how steady her voice sounded. "Think I'll go for a swim before the keynote."

"Save me a lane," he said, and the casual intimacy of it made her stomach turn.

The pool was empty at 7 AM. Elena dove in, the water shocking against her skin, and swam until her muscles burned. It was the only thing that could drown out the memory of his hands on her waist, his lies in her ear. She surfaced gasping, pressed her forehead against the cool tile, and made her decision.

By noon, security would escort him out. By tonight, she'd be on a flight home, alone.

The water stung her eyes, but she didn't close them.