A D R I A N

The clinic doors close behind Elara, and with them goes the boy, stable now, wrapped in fleece and observation charts. The medical crisis is contained. But outside, the spectacle lives on—the boardwalk swollen with gawkers, phones lifted, Marina pacing with her tablet like a lifeline. The lagoon glitters deceptively calm, and yet its glass docks have already birthed headlines. That is where my work begins.

“Clear the dock.” My voice cuts across the chatter like a blade. Heads snap toward me. “Lock the lagoon. Effective immediately.”

Marina gasps, horrified. “Adrian, no, we can’t. It looks like failure.”

“It looks like control.” I don’t raise my voice, but Ethan is already in motion, radio clipped to his mouth. Within seconds, uniformed staff move like chess pieces, forming a perimeter. Guests shuffle back, murmuring, filming. The boardwalk becomes a stage, and I set the scene.

Marina clutches her tablet. “Do you know what this will cost? Refunds, complaints, the press?”

“Do you know what a corpse costs?” Elara’s voice cuts cleanly through. She’s reemerged from the clinic, damp scrubs plastered to her skin, eyes unflinching. “Four minutes without oxygen. He didn’t have them to spare.”

Her authority lands heavier than Marina’s panic, heavier than my order. The crowd quiets, watching her, not me. I swallow the fury and file it away. Control isn’t admiration—it’s command.

“Barricades,” I tell Ethan. “Full perimeter. No guest access until inspection clears.”

“Copy.” His radio crackles with short bursts of confirmation. Two lifeguards redeploy to stand at mirrored barricades; another team wheels in first-aid carts, setting them neatly along the rail as though they’d always been planned. Guest services arrive with trays of bottled water and citrus towels. A junior guard jogs past with a medical kit, movements sharp with drilled efficiency. Within minutes, the dock is transformed from chaos to curated order.

The boardwalk hums with tension. A travel vlogger balances on the rail, shouting into his mic: “Exclusive—Valcrosse Resorts shut their lagoon for safety drills!” A woman in a sequined cover-up argues with her husband—she insists this proves the resort cares, he demands they leave before “the next body.” Children press their faces against the mirrored barricades, disappointed at the forbidden glow beyond.

The smell of sunscreen, sea salt, and chlorine mixes with Marina’s sharp perfume. The glass planks beneath us creak with each shuffle of guests, and the hot air hums with the static of overheard speculation. A gull wheels overhead, shrieking like a heckler, before settling on the far rail, watching as though it too is judging my choices.

Guests whisper, phones aloft. An elderly couple debate canceling their lantern cruise; a teenager rolls her eyes but keeps recording, muttering hashtags under her breath. A little boy tugs his sister’s braid, whispering, “That man owns the ocean,” while pointing at me. Every movement becomes content, every breath monetized. This isn’t panic anymore—it’s theater, and I have to make sure I’m directing it.

Marina hisses, “We need to confiscate recordings.”

“No.” I keep my tone flat, final. “We spin it.”

“Spin?” she sputters.

“Yes. Safety rehearsal. Controlled demonstration. Valcrosse prioritizes guests above profit.” I pitch it deliberately to the crowd. “No one leaves here doubting who leads in prevention.”

The shift is instant. Phones tilt, chatter softens, curiosity blooms. They’ll still trend us, but I’ll dictate the headline.

Marina forces a smile sharp enough to cut glass. “Proactive safety,” she echoes. She wheels toward her assistant, dictating: “Draft one: ‘Safety calibration at Bluefire.’ Cut ‘incident,’ replaced with ‘moment.’ Find family photos—no water. Talking points: Valcrosse leads.” Then, louder, snapping at a staffer in a blazer: “Fix your hair before you’re photographed—this is coverage, not casualty.” She swipes lipstick on in a mirrored sconce, then leans toward me, whispering, “Liability exposure’s a nightmare. We can settle minor refunds, but if this escalates—”

“Then don’t let it escalate,” I cut her off. She blanches and retreats.

Ethan reappears. “Orders?”

“Full audit by dawn,” I answered. “Rails, docks, signage. Every bolt checked.”

“Yes, sir.” He vanishes into the moving parts, precise as ever.

And then it’s only me and Elara. She stands with wet hair dripping down her shoulders, chin lifted. Smaller than me, yet she owns the air between us.

“You shut it down,” she says, voice low. “Didn’t expect that.”

“You expected me to bury it.”

“Was I wrong?”

Her eyes pin me. Silence stretches. I replay the moment she hauled that boy up, conviction radiating without stagecraft. No cameras needed. It worked faster than any order I gave.

I think of boardrooms where I’ve orchestrated obedience, of faceless women who gave me their bodies but never their eyes. Those were clean performances—begin, obey, finish, vanish. What she did was messier. Real. I hate that I respected it.

“You handled it,” I say at last. It’s not praise, it’s judgment.

“I saved him,” she corrects, voice sharp. “Not optics. A boy.”

Phones catch us—me in a pressed shirt, her in soaked scrubs, two forces squared against the lagoon’s glow. By midnight, they’ll frame it as battle or romance. Maybe both.

I should leave. I don’t. I stand too close, and the crowd senses it, leaning in with their lenses. Marina returns, tablet bright. “Headlines are already climbing. Trending tags: #DoctorHero, #SeraphineSafety, #ValcrosseStrong. Negative push too: #DeathTrapSeraphine. #LuxuryLiability.”

She swallows. “Elara’s the hero in half of them. You’re—background.”

“That’s enough,” I snapped. She flinches and disappears again.

Elara’s lips twitch, not smiling. “Better background than a coward.”

“Careful, Doctor,” I murmur. “You’ve lasted three days here. I’ve held this island for a decade.”

“Then you should’ve noticed the cracks sooner.”

My hand lifts, instinctive. Her fingers, damp, nearly brush my knuckles as I gesture. Not a touch, less than a touch, but it sparks like live wire. The heat of her radiates across the inches, unwanted and undeniable. My pulse betrays me, quickening.

Her breath stirs, and it hits me like salt in a wound—she isn’t unaffected. Phones zoom in, hungry, catching the static between us. Someone in the crowd gasps softly, a ripple of voyeuristic thrill passing through the onlookers.

I step back an inch, as if air itself warned me. She doesn’t retreat. She claims the space I left, daring me to widen it further.

The crowd has turned into a jury. A child whispers, “Are they fighting?” His mother hushes him, but not before the word slices the air. A woman near the barricade murmurs to her friend, “No—they’re something else.” A couple of younger guests giggle, already uploading captions: Enemies to lovers? Doctor vs Heir? The rumor machine is faster than any press release Marina can dream up.

And for a flicker of a moment, I almost like it. That the world sees us as equals. That her presence on this stage rivals mine. Almost.

My phone buzzes. Marina glimpses the caller ID, her eyes widening before she turns away. Isabella. My mother doesn’t call idly. She’ll tell me I’ve lost control, that I let a doctor steal my stage. She’ll remind me the crown of the ocean isn’t mine yet.

The name glows on my screen. I watch it fade unanswered. Cameras catch the heir ignoring his mother. Let them speculate. Control is a performance. And tonight, I won’t share the stage—even with her.