E L A R A

The boardroom smells like polished glass and manufactured calm, but I see the fracture lines beneath. Investors sit in shark-black suits around a table sharp enough to cut, their phones tucked just out of sight but recording anyway. A wall of windows frames Isla Seraphine in all its postcard beauty with blue waves, lantern posts, palm shadows. A distraction.

At the head of the table sits Marina Navarro, the queen of spin, copper hair pinned sleek, coral lipstick sharp enough to draw blood. Her tablet glows with seeded hashtags: #SeraphineStrong, #LuxuryWellness, #LanternTideDreams. She’s already shaping the narrative before the truth can take its first breath.

She doesn’t look up when I step inside. “Doctor Quinn,” she says, honey dripping off every syllable. “This is a stakeholders’ update, not a medical inquest.”

My sneakers squeak on the marble floor louder than any stiletto in the room, as I drop a thick folder onto the table. “Funny,” I say, voice even but sharp, “because what I have are lives on the line, not hashtags.”

A ripple runs down the table. Eyes flick to Marina, then to me.

Her smile never falters, but her gaze sharpens. “Lives are safe, Doctor. We’ve had zero fatalities in a decade.”

“Luck isn’t safe,” I snap, flipping the folder open. Case reports fan across the glass: a near-fatal anaphylaxis, heatstroke collapses, jellyfish stings patched with aspirin. “Luck expires. Serenity branding doesn’t restart a heart.”

A few investors shift, uncomfortable. One coughs discreetly, as if mortality is contagious.

Marina leans forward, her perfume sweet enough to choke. “Our guests pay to forget mortality. They come here for calm, not clinics on parade. Ambulances on beaches? Crash carts in lobbies? Panic doesn’t sell.”

“They’ll relax,” I fire back, “knowing their child won’t die choking while staff look for an unlocked supply closet.” Heat coils in my chest, hot and certain. “Medicine isn’t a liability. It’s the only reason your resort isn’t a morgue.”

The silence that follows is heavy enough to bow the glass windows. Investors glance at one another like prey sensing a shift in current. Phones tilt just slightly higher.

Marina’s smile twitches, brittle. “What you’re proposing is hysteria disguised as policy. Panic signage. Sirens. Guests don’t want to picture tragedy while they toast champagne.”

“Preparedness,” I cut in, steady and cold. “AEDs, EpiPens, trained staff. You call that panic? I call it standard of care.”

Her smirk curves. She knows where to strike. “The heir has already reminded us that optics matter. Serenity is medicine here. And he is my vote.”

The name lands like a blade in the center of the table: Adrian Valcrosse. For weeks, she’s wielded his absence like armor, as if he will always choose her side, always value profit over pulse.

The doors open. And every molecule in the room shifts.

He doesn’t rush, he never does. Adrian walks in like the ocean itself obeys him, salt still drying on his skin from a morning dive, sleeves rolled high, shoulders cut from command. He moves with the patience of a predator, the inevitability of a tide.

Marina lights up as though she’s already won. “Adrian. Perfect timing. We were aligning expectations. Dr. Quinn feels..”

“I heard.” His voice slices hers in half, smooth and merciless.

His eyes lock on mine. Not Marina’s. Not the investors’. Mine. They pin me to my chair, burning steady and unyielding. I don’t look away, not even when my pulse trips.

He slides into the chair at the head of the table, flips open my folder as if it belongs to him. His jaw tightens once. Then he looks up.

“She’s right.”

The room exhales in shock.

Marina blinks. Her smile cracks. “I beg your pardon?”

“Preparedness isn’t hysteria.” His voice is steady steel. “It’s competence. And as of now, it’s a policy.”

Gasps ripple down the table. One investor leans forward like he’s heard blasphemy. Another scribbles numbers. Marina’s knuckles whiten around her tablet.

My breath tangles in my throat. He didn’t just defend me in private. He did it here, in front of cameras and investors, with every consequence watching.

“Adrian,” Marina tries again, brittle. “With respect, optics..”

“Optics mean nothing if a guest dies,” he cuts in, sharp as a whip. “Seraphine survives on living guests, not hashtags.”

For one impossible heartbeat, the balance tilts toward me. Toward medicine. Toward survival.

And then he looks at me again. Not a flicker, not a glance. A stare that burns, that tells every person in this room that I am not alone. That for once, Adrian Valcrosse chose my side.

Something in my chest loosens, hot and dangerous. I don’t thank him. I can’t. But I feel the truth roar through me: he didn’t just choose survival. He chose me.

The meeting dissolves in slow waves. Chairs scrape, investors file out with murmurs about budgets and drills. Some offer Adrian handshakes, guarded respect. Others shoot me pointed looks, the kind that promise this fight isn’t over.

Marina doesn’t even glance at me. She sweeps her tablet into her bag like a sword and storms out, perfume biting the air. The door snaps shut behind her.

I gather my folder, pulse still thundering. I should leave, back to the clinic, back where the stakes are measured in breaths, not press releases. But my body refuses to move. Leaving would be smart. Instead, I linger, reckless enough to want his eyes on me once more. He doesn’t. He’s already fielding investors, voice low and controlled, shoulders broad as stone.

I turn toward the door. That’s when I hear it.

“Adrian.” The voice is smooth, male, threaded with power. An older investor, silver hair gleaming, cufflinks flashing. He leans in close, not realizing I’m still within earshot, half-hidden by the frame.

“Fire her before the Lantern Tide.”

The blood drains from my face.

“She undermines optics. Makes us look brittle. Guests don’t spend when they smell panic. Remove her. Publicly. Before the lanterns launch.”

The air thins. My nails bite into the wood of the doorframe.

Adrian doesn’t answer right away. His shoulders stay rigid, unreadable.

The investor presses, voice lower, deadlier. “Do it, and you prove you can lead without your mother’s leash. Fail, and you lose more than face. You lose the island.”

Rage and dread slam into me at once. They aren’t just coming for me but they’re coming for him. For us.

I should walk away. Pretend I didn’t hear. But I can’t move. My pulse pounds in my throat, waiting for his answer.

Waiting to know if today was the moment Adrian chose me… or the moment the knives at his back cut us both open.