E L A R A

Salt clings to my tongue the second I step off the ferry, sharp as blood on my lips. The horn’s low bellow still vibrates in my bones, gulls wheel overhead, and warm spray kisses my cheeks as if mocking me with promises of paradise. The breeze is heavy with orchids and sea-salt brightness, but to me it tastes like danger—like silk-wrapped lies I know better than to trust.
Because I’ve seen what happens when serenity is a mask. I’ve unzipped body bags under chandeliers. I’ve heard monitors flatline while donors toasted champagne in the next room.

The boardwalk gleams beneath my shoes, polished so clean it nearly blinds. Lanterns sway from curved silver posts, glass panes scattering sunlight in perfect rhythm. Palm trees lean in the breeze, posed like actors directed to look carefree. Guests spill from the ferry behind me—linen suits, straw hats, luggage that probably costs more than my old monthly rent. Their laughter floats across the water like champagne bubbles, weightless, thoughtless, as if mortality never applies to them.

I shift the strap of my medical bag higher on my shoulder. The canvas is faded, New York subway dust still clinging in the seams. It feels heavy against all this shine. Inside are the tools I’ve learned never to trust anyone else to provide. Oxygen tubing. A compact defibrillator. Extra ampules of epinephrine. Each item earned with a memory: a patient who didn’t make it, a hallway too long, a crash cart locked when seconds mattered.
Never again.

A child’s squeal cuts through my thoughts. He points toward the bioluminescent bay—Bluefire Lagoon, if the brochure was accurate. His mother shushes him quickly, casting nervous glances around as though joy itself might violate resort rules. Serenity, I’m realizing fast, is part of the package here.
But serenity doesn’t save lives.

The clinic sits at the far end of the boardwalk, a sleek white building stamped with the Valcrosse crest—two golden waves entwined in a circle. Expensive. Pretending to be more than it is. My stomach tightens even before I step through its frosted glass doors.

Inside is worse.

The waiting area gleams—white walls, chrome counters, orchids bowing politely in a vase as though even flowers know their place here. It’s a design team’s fantasy of medicine, not a functioning clinic.

I move slowly, taking stock. Two exam rooms. One nurse’s station. A single oxygen tank strapped to the wall. Cabinets neat enough for a glossy magazine spread. But when I open the supply shelves, my stomach knots tighter.

Bandages. Gauze. Antiseptic.
No crash cart.
No defibrillator.
No EpiPens.
On an island that serves shellfish twice a day, someone is going to die here.

The nurse at the desk glances up. She’s young, maybe late twenties, her dark eyes rimmed with exhaustion. Her badge reads Asha.

“How long have you been the only one on nights?” I ask gently.

She shrugs, but the motion carries years. “Always nights. Sometimes days too, when the roster is thin. They don’t like overtime on the budget reports.”

The words land like a fist. I’ve lived this scene before. Gunshot, stroke, cardiac arrest all hitting at once in New York. Three patients. Too few staff. I sprinted for a crash cart that wasn’t where it should’ve been, and by the time I found it, one man’s heart had already stopped.
If it can happen in a hospital, it can happen here. And here, orchids and glass walls won’t soften the loss.

Asha rubs her wrist absently, voice dropping. “Missed my niece’s birthday last week. Cake over video call, balloons already deflating by the time I logged on.” She forces a smile. “That’s just how it goes here.”

The words ache. Asha isn’t just tired—she’s already sacrificing family for this place, and no one seems to care. I see myself in her, the version of me who gave everything to a system that didn’t give a damn back.

I unzip my bag, laying out my own stock on the counter. The compact AED. IV lines. Epinephrine. An airway kit. Administrators call it paranoia. I call it memory.
“The Lantern Tide Festival is in three weeks?” I ask, nodding toward the glossy poster taped to the wall—lanterns drifting into the ocean, couples smiling as though accidents don’t exist.

Asha nods. “We call it our Super Bowl.”

“Then we’re a team without helmets.”

Before she can answer, the clinic door swings open.

Perfume rides the sunlight inside. Heels strike the tile in perfect rhythm. The woman who enters looks curated by Seraphine itself—copper hair pinned sleek, coral lipstick sharp as a blade, linen dress fluttering with just the right amount of breeze.
“Dr. Quinn.” She air-kisses near my cheek, clipboard snug under her arm. “Marina Navarro. Public Relations. Welcome to Seraphine.”

Her smile is polished enough to sell dreams. I don’t trust polished.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she adds, gesturing at the chrome counters. “Our guests come here for serenity, not the noise of hospitals. This clinic suits that vision perfectly.”

“Your vision doesn’t have EpiPens,” I say flatly. “Or a crash cart. Or enough staff to handle a festival that triples your risk profile.”

Her smile doesn’t falter, but the glint in her eyes sharpens. “We’ve had zero fatalities in ten years.”

“Statistics don’t care about your press kit. Three minutes of anaphylaxis can kill a child. A heart can stop before your guests finish their cocktails.”

“Doctor.” Her voice stays honey-sweet. “You’re seeing risks where our guests see beauty. They don’t pay to imagine ambulances on vacation. Serenity is medicine here.”

I bite back a laugh that isn’t humor. “Serenity doesn’t restart a heart.”

Marina slides a clipboard across the counter. “Coverage report. Sign this, and Lantern Tide is officially cleared.”

The blank line waits for my name like a trap. My pen would mean lives promised safe, when I know better.
“No,” I say.

The fracture in her smile is small but satisfying. “You’re very direct, Dr. Quinn. That may have worked in New York, but here we honor serenity. Guests don’t need liabilities displayed.”

“Liabilities,” I echo, bitter. “You mean medicine.”

Her nails click against the clipboard. “Adrian will never approve this.”

The name hangs heavy: Adrian Valcrosse. Eldest son. Heir to the empire. The kind of arrogance New York trained me to spot in seconds.
“Then Adrian can tell me himself,” I reply.

The door opens again, but this time it’s not perfume that enters—it’s steel. Broad shoulders, black shirt, a stance cut from military training. The badge on his chest reads Ethan Kane, Security. His gaze sweeps the room once, efficient, landing on me, on Marina, on the unsigned clipboard like it’s a weapon left on the counter.
“Problem?” His voice is low, even.

“No problem,” Marina says too quickly. “Dr. Quinn is acclimating to our protocols.”

“She’s refusing to sign,” I add, calm but burning. “This clinic isn’t prepared. Not for Lantern Tide. Not for anything.”

Ethan’s eyes take in the open cabinets, the empty shelves, the half-written list on my pad. His words land like stones in still water. “She’s right.”

Marina stiffens. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve had close calls,” Ethan continues, steady as stone. “Heatstroke at last year’s gala. Jellyfish sting at the east cove. Luck covered the gaps. Luck doesn’t last forever.”

For a dangerous moment, something in me loosens. Recognition. Relief. Someone else who sees it. Someone who doesn’t think I’m dramatic for caring.

Marina’s voice turns brittle. “Security and medicine are separate concerns. Your job is paparazzi, Ethan.”

“My job is keeping people alive,” he says simply. “If Adrian wants to argue, he can argue with me.”

Her glare could cut glass. “Adrian will not like this.”

“Then Adrian can hear it from me,” I say, iron over ice.

Marina sweeps out in a storm of perfume and heels. The air she leaves is sharp but breathable. Ethan lingers, steady as a lighthouse, then inclines his head once. Not agreement, not defiance—just recognition of ground worth holding.

I look at Asha. “Help me write a list,” I say, grabbing a pen. “Crash cart. EpiPens. AEDs. Antivenom. Double night staff. Heat protocols. Training. Everything.”

Her relief is so raw it tightens my throat. “Yes, Doctor.”

The tape rips loud in the silence as I slap the list to the cabinet. Paper crinkles, edges curling like a flag. A posted law. A commandment.
“Not until this island is safe,” I vow under my breath.

Marina’s warning echoes in memory: Adrian will never approve.
Good. Let Adrian Valcrosse try.