A D R I AN

The storm in my chest hasn’t eased by the time I stalk into the security room. Screens line the walls, their glow stuttering in shades of blue and green, like the sea itself has broken into static. Ethan is already inside, arms crossed, jaw set, his entire posture carved from patience and readiness.

I should feel steadier with him here. I don’t.

Because all I can still see is Elara’s eyes under the lanterns—defiance, fury, and something hotter—when I told her to stay out of this. Her me is still ricocheting in my skull.

The door clicks open. Perfume slides through the charged air before her heels even strike the floor. Marina Navarro glides inside like the room was waiting for her. Coral lipstick unflawed, copper hair sleek, linen dress whispering against her legs as though she’s incapable of moving without theater.

Her smile lands on me polished and perfect. “Adrian. I heard there was… turbulence.”

Turbulence. That’s her word for sabotage?

I step closer, close enough that the screen glow reflects in her pupils. “A skiff is missing. Its ropes were cut. And my doctor’s credentials were smeared in a way that originated from your department.”

Her smile doesn’t falter. “Oh, that. The credential issue was an unfortunate clerical oversight. I regret the confusion it caused Dr. Quinn.”

“Confusion doesn’t cut rope,” I bite out.

Ethan flicks a switch, one of the feeds looping. The docks shudder in pixel static. Marina barely glances at it.

“The skiff likely drifted,” she says smoothly. “Storm surge, wear on the lines. These things happen in a marine environment.”

I step closer still, lowering my voice until it’s a blade. “Lines fray. They don’t snap clean unless someone wanted them to.”

For a fraction of a second, her smile twitches—then resets, brighter. “Guests don’t need words like sabotage in their vocabulary, Adrian. We use maintenance issues. Unfortunate oversight. Handled swiftly by our proactive team.”

I almost laugh. She’s too good. Too smooth. Not a bead of sweat, not a crack in the glassy veneer.

“You think I care what guests need to hear?” I say, voice low. “I care about what I need to see—the truth. And right now, your answers are rehearsed.”

Her eyes flash. “My job is to protect Seraphine’s image. If that means smoothing edges, so be it. You’ve always known that.”

I stare at her, watching the way her lips curve without warmth, the way her perfume coats the air until it feels toxic. Marina’s smile isn’t comfort. It’s knives.

And if I keep pressing, one of us is going to bleed.

Ethan doesn’t wait for permission—he never does when the stakes are this clear. He punches keys until one of the dock cameras freezes on a blur of motion. The frame jitters, distorted, then steadies into something more sinister.

A figure. Hood up. Shoulders hunched. Moving with an unsteady rhythm along the marina edge.

My pulse spikes. “Back it up.”

The footage rewinds in sharp skips. Ethan slows it, isolates the walk. Not random. Not storm-swept. Calculated. One leg drags just a fraction behind the other. Limp. Distinctive.

“That’s not weather damage,” I say. “That’s a man who knew exactly where to cut.”

Marina drifts closer to the screen, her smile softening into something rehearsed—concern, but the kind that belongs on a brochure. “A guest with too much to drink. A worker off shift. This isn’t evidence of anything.”

My jaw flexes. “Drunk men don’t walk that steady while cutting rope.”

The feed sputters again, dissolving into static. Deliberate interference. I taste the metallic tang of fury on my tongue. Someone’s playing with my island—my family’s legacy—as if it’s a stage for their sabotage.

My phone buzzes. Not a call. A text.

Lucien.

He’s supposed to be buried in sketchbooks on Noctiluna, brooding under starlight. Instead, a grainy still appears on my screen—sharper than anything our cameras managed. He’s taken the footage Ethan forwarded, enhanced it with an artist’s obsession.

“See the weight distribution,” his message reads. “Right hip compensates. Old injury? Pattern repeats every third step. Not random. Not drunk. Intentional.”

Of course he’d see it. When I calculate tides and margins, Lucien sees lines, shadows, and balance. He sketches storms into patterns. Now he’s sketching my saboteur.

I type back with a speed I rarely allow: “Send me a comparison if you find one. Known staff, vendors, anyone.”

His reply is instant, clipped. “Already looking.”

Ethan studies the still over my shoulder. “He’s right. Whoever this is, they know our blind spots. That cut was surgical.”

My skin tightens. Lucien, halfway across the isles, already sharpening the picture. Ethan, solid and steady at my side. And Marina—still smiling, still spinning, already murmuring about optics and headlines.

Her words barely register. Because all I can think of is Elara’s voice, fierce and unrelenting on the promenade: Start acting like it.

The hooded figure limps offscreen. The feed dies into black.

And for the first time, I want blood more than answers.

<hr>

The door slams open.

Elara storms in like the tide itself—scrubs clinging damp to her curves, cheeks flushed from the night air, eyes lit gray-green like a storm signal. She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t blink, just throws herself into the fire.

“You’re not going without me.”

The air in the security room shifts. Even Ethan’s head turns, the closest thing to surprise I’ll ever get out of him. Marina’s lips curve, delighted, like she’s watching a duel she placed bets on.

I pivot slowly, deliberately. “Excuse me?”

Her chin lifts. “If you’re taking the RIB out, I’m on it. That’s not a request.”

I close the distance between us in three strides, until her heat cuts through the chill radiating off the monitors. “You’re not a diver. You’ll only slow me down.”

She doesn’t flinch. “And you’re not a doctor. You think adrenaline and brute force will be enough when someone pulls a lungful of seawater? When cold shock throws their heart into chaos? You won’t even recognize the arrhythmia before it kills them.”

Her words land like blows. My hands curl into fists at my sides. “You’ll drown.”

“I’ll save someone from drowning,” she fires back. “That’s the difference.”

I take a half step closer. Her breath hitches—whether from fury or something else, I can’t tell. “This isn’t negotiable,” I say, voice low enough to vibrate between us. “You’re staying. I’m not risking you.”

Something flickers in her eyes at that—anger, yes, but also a flash of heat that knots tight in my gut. She presses forward until we’re a breath apart, her chest rising fast. “Don’t pretend this is about me. This is about your control. And it will cost someone their life if you don’t get over it.”

Marina’s perfume cuts through the charge, her voice sickly sweet. “Shall I frame this for the press as… internal conflict?”

Neither of us even look at her.

Ethan clears his throat once, subtle warning. He feels the knife edge between us.

I break first, because if I don’t, I’ll do something reckless—like grab Elara by the jaw and crush my mouth to hers. Instead, I turn, spine stiff. “Stay here. That’s final.”

Her voice lashes after me, sharp enough to cut. “Then pray your pride doesn’t kill them before you get back.”

I don’t give her the satisfaction of looking back. My voice is already in command mode, sharp and stripped of anything human.

“Ethan. Prep the RIB. Full kit. Radar sweep in place before we leave the dock.”

“On it,” he says, calm as stone. He moves, efficiently, already speaking into his radio.

Marina’s perfume lingers like poison. “Spin first, Adrian. Make sure the story—”

“Not now.” The words rip out like thunder. Her smile twitches but never truly breaks. She’s too trained for that.

I shove the door open, night air hitting me like surf. The marina lies below, black water swallowing lantern light whole. My pulse matches the tide’s rhythm—fast, violent, inevitable.

Behind me, I hear the scrape of Elara’s sneakers on tile as she follows the threshold. Her voice is lower now, but no less fierce.

“You’re walking into cold black water with no doctor. You’ll find a body, but you won’t be able to bring it back.”

I freeze just long enough for her words to cut. Then I launch down the steps, every stride a refusal. “Stay here, Quinn.”

The name tastes like a wall, a line drawn in salt.

Ethan’s already at the RIB, headlamp beam cutting across the waves. Engines cough alive, echoing against the docks. My hands grip the rail as I climb aboard, fury and duty welded together.

Elara stays on the pier, framed in lantern light, her arms crossed tight, jaw set. I know that look. It isn’t surrender.

The boat tears free from the dock, spray biting my face. The island recedes.

And still, her eyes burn in my chest.

If she comes after me—and God help me, I know she will—it won’t just be sabotage I’ll have to fight.

It’ll be her.