E L A R A

The sun hasn’t cleared the horizon, and already the sand burns through my sneakers. Dawn heat presses heavy, turning the practice beach into a pressure cooker. This is supposed to be a controlled drill. It feels like a setup.

“Stations every fifty meters,” I call, headset crackling in my ear. “Hydration tents staged. Radios check—north, south, boardwalk.”

For three blessed seconds, the chorus of replies is clean.

Then static swallows everything.

A hiss floods my ear, mocking, endless. “North?” I demand. Nothing. “South?” More hiss. The line goes dead in every channel.

“Doctor!” Ben, one of the junior guards, waves both arms down the strand. His voice cracks like he’s still in high school. “North Gate’s dark. No signal.”

“Fallback system,” I snap. “Runner relays. Mouth to chest, not ear to ear. Move.”

He bolts, sand spraying. My pulse kicks, faster than it should. Radios fail in the city, too, usually right before someone stops breathing.

“Elara!” Asha barrels toward me, clipboard clutched tight, ponytail damp with sweat. “The water tent—palms side—it’s gone. Housekeeping dragged it to the yoga lawn.”

“Of course they did.” My molars ache from the pressure I clamp into them. “Pull the spare from supply. Ice packs from catering. Run.”

She nods and bolts.

A crash behind me. I turn in time to see two towel carts, stacked to the ceiling, rolling straight across the EMT lane I ordered clear. The housekeepers pushing them don’t even look up.

“Stop!” I sprint, slam both palms into the carts, and shove. They screech against the sand, halting inches short of the cones. “This lane stays sterile. Always. No exceptions.”

The staff blink at me, wide-eyed, like they’ve never heard medicine spoken like law.

I want to scream. This is supposed to be a rehearsal, but it’s collapsing in real time—no comms, no water, no access. And Lantern Tide is three weeks away.

If this is how the island handles a drill, what happens when it’s a life?

“Reset optics,” Marina’s voice trills from somewhere down the beach. She’s in linen trousers and a coral blouse, tablet hugged like armor. “This chaos isn’t the message we want on rehearsal day.”

I nearly laugh. Chaos isn’t the message? Chaos is the truth.

Before I can snap, a deeper voice cuts the air.

“Phones down. Clear the lane. Housekeeping—those carts to the palms. Guest Services—water every twenty meters, not fifty. Security—push the line back to the flag.”

Adrian Valcrosse strides into the drill like the beach belongs to him. Sleeves rolled, collar open, jaw tight. His tone is command steel, not boardroom polish. And people listen.

The towel carts vanish, shoved double-time. Guests with phones actually lower them. Guards snap into motion like they’ve been waiting for a voice that carries weight.

“Why are radios dead?” he demands without slowing.

“Because your system is staged, not safe,” I fire back, refusing to cede ground. “And if this were real, someone would already be in arrest.”

His gaze lands on me—sharp, appraising. The look of a man deciding if the critic in front of him is liability or ally.

“Noted,” he says. Then louder, to the team: “Command goes through Dr. Quinn until comms are restored. No improvisation. You follow her voice.”

I blink, startled, then catch myself. Of course he didn’t do that for me. He did it for optics, for control. Still… the drill snaps tighter, cleaner.

Marina tries again, fluttering at his elbow. “Adrian, if cameras see—”

“Then cameras will see order,” he cuts her off, not even looking at her.

My throat burns with the words I want to spit—that this isn’t about cameras, it’s about survival—but the way he shut her down steals my fury for one sharp breath.

For the first time, I see it: not just the heir playing king, but a man who can actually command a crisis.

And I hate that a part of me respects it.

The drill volunteer drops to the sand, clutching his chest, groaning like he’s supposed to. A few staff gasp, half-impressed with the theatrics. I open my mouth to correct posture when another sound cuts through—raw, broken.

A real voice.

A middle-aged man, linen shirt sweat-soaked, staggers three feet beyond the cones. His knees buckle. His eyes roll. Then he’s down.

“That’s not simulation,” I bark, already moving. My knees hit sand beside him. “Sir—can you hear me?!”

Nothing. His pulse is fast, shallow. Breathing ragged. Heat syncope, maybe edging into stroke if we’re unlucky.

“Elara!” Asha’s at my side with a cuff. I nod once, already tilting the man’s head, loosening his collar.

“Ethan—umbrella shade, now. Asha—BP. I need cool cloths at his neck and groin.”

I don’t look up when I add, “Valcrosse—water, not ice. Small sips when he rouses.”

There’s no hesitation. Adrian kneels opposite me, sand streaking his trousers, one big hand bracing the man’s shoulder. He doesn’t argue or grandstand. He just does it.

“Pulse one-twenty,” I mutter. “Skin clammy. Breathing twelve per minute.”

“BP ninety over sixty,” Asha reports, eyes sharp.

Adrian shifts closer, cups the guest’s head with a towel. When the man moans, Adrian steadies him, voice low, calm. “Stay with us. You’ll drink in a moment. Easy.”

The sight punches something hard and unwanted in me. Arrogant men don’t kneel in sand. They don’t follow orders without twisting them. They don’t steady strangers like they matter.

“Good,” I hear myself say, clipped. “Tilt his head. Sips only, every thirty seconds.”

“Copy,” Adrian answers, like we’ve done this together a hundred times.

And suddenly we’re in sync—my commands, his movements, seamless. Shade above us, crowd hushed, every gaze pinned to the two of us kneeling side by side.

The man blinks awake under the umbrella’s shade, color creeping back into his cheeks. He sips carefully from the cup Adrian steadies, swallows, then exhales like he’s surfacing from deep water.

“Better,” I murmur, fingers still at his pulse. Stronger now. Not perfect, but steady.

“We’ll keep you seated until you’ve cooled,” I tell him gently. “No sudden standing. Let your body catch up.”

He nods, embarrassed, mumbling an apology. Adrian leans closer, firm but not cold. “You have nothing to apologize for. Heat takes anyone it wants. We caught you early.”

The guest’s wife rushes forward with tears in her eyes. Asha slips in smoothly, guiding them both under the canopy for monitoring. The crisis hands itself off, the crowd exhales, and suddenly the beach feels like it’s breathing again.

I stand, brushing sand off my knees, still buzzing with adrenaline. And find Adrian already up, watching me.

For once, no smirk, no boardroom mask. Just a man with damp sweat at his temples, jaw flexing like he doesn’t know what to say.

I clear my throat, force myself to be honest. “Good call. On the sips.”

His brows lift, faint surprise breaking through. Then he nods, tone low and even. “Good call on not moving him.”

We stare at each other a beat too long, the air thick with something I don’t want to name. My pulse kicks, not from heat this time.

I should look away. I don’t.

For the first time since I set foot on this island, I see Adrian Valcrosse not as an obstacle, not as an arrogant heir—but as someone I could trust in the dirt with me.

And that thought terrifies me more than the drill ever could.

Applause ripples from the staff line, hesitant at first, then growing. Some of them look relieved. Some look… impressed. Not at me. At us.

The thought is still buzzing through me when Ethan jogs up from the marina, his stride clipped, jaw like stone. He isn’t clapping. He’s carrying a coil of rope.

“Elara. Adrian.” His voice is low, urgent, meant for us alone. He holds out the end of the line.

It’s not frayed. Not weather-worn. It’s a clean diagonal cut.

“The supply skiff was drifting,” he says flatly. “This was its tie-down.”

The world tilts for a breath. Not an accident. Not incompetence. Intent.

Adrian takes the rope from Ethan, thumb running over the severed fibers. His face goes storm-dark, unreadable to anyone but me.

“Knife work,” he says. A verdict, not a guess.

My stomach knots. Lantern Tide is weeks away. If someone is sabotaging us now—what happens when thousands of guests crowd these beaches?

Ethan scans the horizon, already on edge. “Want me loud, or quiet?”

“Quiet,” Adrian orders. His voice is steel, his eyes never leaving mine. “We keep the cameras blind until we know who’s inside our walls.”

I swallow, heat flooding colder than any storm.

The radios, the tents, the blocked lanes—those weren’t just mistakes. They were rehearsals, too. Someone is already playing this game.

The waves glitter gold under dawn light, serene and innocent. To anyone else, the beach looks perfect again.

But in my chest, my pulse hammers one truth: serenity is a lie. And someone on this island is sharpening their knives.