Watermarks

Elena adjusted the grip on her padel racket, sweat stinging her eyes. Across the net, Marcus laughed—that sharp, arrogant sound that had haunted her since Barcelona. The ball bounced, a bright yellow blur against the artificial blue turf.

"You're distracted, El," he called, smashing a winner past her outstretched arm. "Not like you to miss the easy ones."

She retrieved the ball from the fence. He didn't know she'd spent the morning in his office, photographing the diagrams on his desk. He didn't know the spy software on her phone had already transmitted those images to their competitor. He didn't know a lot of things.

"Just tired," she said.

They played on. The bull-market bonuses Marcus had bragged about last week—fifteen million for the fiber optic cable project—would never materialize. Not after tomorrow's announcement. Not after her anonymous tip to the SEC about the falsified test results.

"You know what I love about this game?" Marcus said, wiping his forehead with a towel during a break. "The precision. One wrong swing, everything changes."

Elena nodded. She thought about the waterproof USB drive in her locker, containing enough evidence to bury him. She thought about their anniversary dinner next week. She thought about the whistleblower reward that would finally let her leave him, leave this life of pretending not to see the late-night texts, the unexplained deposits, the way his eyes never quite met hers anymore.

"Game point," he said, grinning. But Elena didn't swing. She let the ball drop.

"What are you doing?"

"Choosing." She walked to the net, the boundary between them suddenly vast. "The water's rising, Marcus. And I'm done pretending you'll build me an ark."

His face changed. The bull finally recognized the matador.

"You wouldn't."

"Already did." She dropped her racket. It hit the ground with a hollow, final sound. "Check your email."