A D R I A N

The investor’s voice lingers long after he leaves, slick as oil in my ears. Fire her before the Lantern Tide. The words aren’t a suggestion—they’re a blade pressed to my throat. One wrong move, and the island isn’t mine.

Elara doesn’t know I saw her at the door. The way her body froze when those words dropped, the way she gripped the frame as if she could anchor herself against betrayal. She thinks I might sell her out to prove myself. Hell, half of me wonders if I should. The board would cheer, the investors would breathe easier, my mother would stop watching me with that hawk’s suspicion.

But the other half, the part that remembers her voice steadying drowning guests, her hands slick with salt and certainty. Can’t. She’s the only one who doesn’t bow to the theater. And if I fire her, I fire the only truth this island has left.

Tomorrow’s drill isn’t just about safety anymore. It’s a test. For her. For me. For us. And if we fail again, the knives waiting at my back won’t just cut her, they’ll cut me open too.

The sand is already hot underfoot when I step onto the training ground. Staff cluster in two uneven lines, radios clipped to their belts, eyes sharp with nerves. They remember last time was chaos, blocked corridors, radios that went dead, a fainting guest almost carted away in front of cameras.

Now, every gaze flicks between me and Elara, waiting to see if we’ll tear each other apart before the whistle even blows.

“Positions,” I ordered, voice cutting through the chatter. Ethan’s already moving, sharp as steel, setting runners in place, locking towel carts in their designated gaps. The crowd thickens along the barricade guests, influencers, even a few off-duty staff who smell blood in the water. Marina prowls with her tablet, waiting to spin victory or disaster into headlines.

Elara stands at my side, clipboard steady, hair pulled into a clean knot. Her scrubs are replaced with the navy polo I ordered for medical staff which practical, professional, and yet she looks like she commands the entire beach.

“Medical,” she calls, her tone clear, controlled. “Staging is easy. Oxygen, hydration, triage is here. One line, not scattered. You wait for my signal before you move.”

The staff don’t hesitate. They listen. They obey.

Something clenches in my chest, half pride, half something I refuse to name. The investor’s voice hisses in my skull: Fire her. Remove her publicly. But if he saw this, her spine straight, her authority absolute, he’d choke on his own words.

I catch her glance sideways, the briefest flicker. No challenge this time. Just trust.

“Ready?” she asks.

“Blow it,” I tell Ethan.

The whistle pierces the air, and the drill begins.

Controlled chaos breaks across the sand, except this time, it’s ours.

A runner collapses in the simulation, and Elara is already moving, dropping to her knees with precision that looks effortless. “Airway clear. Breathing shallow. Hydration, now.” Her hands are steady, her voice louder than the surf. Two staff sprint forward, oxygen mask and water in place before I can blink.

Another “victim” stumbles near the barricade, feigning heatstroke. Elara doesn’t even turn, she just flicks her fingers, and the secondary team sweeps in with shade tents and cold packs. Guests murmur behind the rope, phones lifted, but this time what they capture isn’t panic. It’s a command.

I pivot to logistics, barking orders, and Ethan mirrors me at the perimeter. Radios crackle clean, every order received and echoed back without hesitation. Towel carts roll into the right lanes, corridors stay clear, lifeguards stage water stations exactly where they should be.

For once, Seraphine moves like a single machine.

And Elara, God! She’s the center of it. No panic in her tone, no wasted gestures. When one nurse hesitates, she crouches beside him, her hand brushing his arm, her eyes locking on his until he steadies. Guests lean forward, whispering, pointing. The applause starts small, a couple of claps from near the barricade and then swells as the mock “casualty” is lifted to the triage tent, vitals called out, oxygen flowing like clockwork.

I should be taking a victory lap. Instead, my throat is tight, my chest heavier than it should be. She was supposed to be a liability, a thorn in my control. Instead, she’s the one making this island look unshakable.

Elara glances at me across the sand. Sweat beads at her temple, her mouth firm, eyes alight with something fierce. Pride. Defiance. Maybe both.

And against every instinct I’ve trained into myself, I find myself smiling back.

The crowd sees it. I can feel their eyes, the hush of phones recording not chaos this time, but the two of us, side by side, untouchable.

The whistle blows again. Drill complete. Perfect.

And the beach erupts in applause.

The clapping doesn’t stop quickly. It rolls, wave after wave, carried by laughter, shouts, even a few whistles. A child perched on his father’s shoulders points toward Elara. “That doctor saved him so fast!” he cries, voice carrying over the crowd. His father nods, smiling like he believes it wasn’t just a drill. The story is already writing itself in their minds. Hero doctor. Safe island. Valcrosse legacy secure.

Marina moves quickly, heels sinking in the sand, murmuring into her headset. I know she’ll spin this into headlines by sundown: Seraphine’s safety drill sets the standard. But this time, she won’t have to lie. Elara gave her the truth gift-wrapped.

I watch her, my doctor, though I’ll never dare say it out loud. She’s surrounded by nurses now, her voice low but still commanding, checking vitals on the mock casualties as if it were real. No detail escapes her. A towel was replaced. A pulse checked twice. A nurse’s posture was corrected with a gentle press to the shoulder. She makes the impossible, discipline and compassion in the same breath, look natural.

One of the guests edges closer to me, an older woman in a wide-brimmed hat. Her accent is French, her voice reverent. “Monsieur Valcrosse… your doctor, she is extraordinary.”

My chest tightens. I don’t correct her. I let the words settle, heavy and dangerous.

When Elara finally straightens, our eyes lock across the beach. For a moment, it feels like there’s no one else, no guests, no staff, no cameras. Just her pulse against mine across the sand. Then a burst of clapping jolts me back. Phones flash. The moment is caught and catalogued, another rumor waiting to spread.

Applause still thunders when Ethan touches my arm, his expression carved in stone. Not here, his eyes warn. But the pressure of his hand tells me it’s urgent.

I follow him off the sand, into the shade of the operations tent. The noise of the crowd dulls, replaced by the low hiss of monitors and the hum of fans. Ethan taps a screen, jaw tight. “Security review. North dock camera, last night.”

Grainy footage flickers. A hooded figure moves along the supply skiff, shadow stretched under the floodlights. I expect the same blur we’ve seen before, the same useless grain. But then the figure turns, missteps, and my blood runs cold.

Not a stumble. A limp. Distinct. Familiar.

The cadence of that walk is burned into me, every uneven beat, every drag of the left leg. I’ve seen it cross my boardroom. I’ve heard it echo down these halls for years.

“Son of a bitch,” I whisper, throat tight. My hands curl into fists before I can stop them.

Ethan looks at me, waiting. “You recognize him.”

I can’t answer. Not yet. Because saying the name out loud means admitting this isn’t sabotage from the outside. It’s betrayal from within.

Outside, the crowd still cheers Elara like a hero. Inside, the ground shifts beneath me, jagged and merciless.

The saboteur isn’t just close. He’s family.