E L A R A

The sun feels cruel today.

It’s not just heat but it’s exposure. The kind that sharpens every gaze, every whisper, every mistake.

We’re twenty minutes into the full-scale safety drill Adrian ordered less than twelve hours after the Lantern Tide grid collapse. The board thinks it’s optics. Adrian thinks it’s a strategy. I think it’s survival.

“Station Two! report!” I shout over the hiss of the hydration tents, clipboard slick in my palm. “Where’s your AED?”

“Still en route, Dr. Quinn!” the volunteer EMT calls back.

“You have sixty seconds to find it or your patient dies. Move!”

The boardwalk is a patchwork of triage zones and performance anxiety. Staff play victims and responders to heatstroke, jellyfish sting, cardiac arrest. I made the scenario brutal on purpose. Real-life chaos doesn’t wait for aesthetics.

Sweat drips down my spine, sticking my shirt to my skin. The mirrored glass of the boardwalk blinds at the edges, throwing sharp beams across my eyes as I pace the perimeter.

A PR intern drops a thermal blanket into the wrong zone. I swoop in before he can panic. “No, that goes to Station Four. Posterior burn simulation. And do not cover the airway zone with a towel again.”

He nods frantically, cheeks flushed. “Yes, Doctor. Sorry, Doctor.”

Ethan watches from the shade, arms crossed, earpiece in. I catch his nod when I reroute two more responders toward the lifeguard outpost. One of the carts is already overheating, towels baking under the sun instead of being used for hydration or padding.

We’re not failing. But we’re close. And close doesn’t save lives.

I check my watch. Twenty-three minutes. No major delays yet, but the real festival won’t be a drill. It’ll be tourists. Alcohol. Heat. Cameras. Chaos.

Adrian had said last night, “We get one chance to show them we’re ready. This is our dress rehearsal. No improv.”

So I wrote this drill like a war plan.

But even war plans don’t account for family.

Not when that family is Kai Valcrosse and he’s heading straight for the epicenter.

The whistle that slices through the air isn’t part of the drill.

I turn just in time to see a jet ski cut a wave too close to the dock. It arcs up in a gleaming spray, then coasts to a reckless stop beside the safety boat. The driver swings one long leg over and hops off barefoot, shirt open, grin flashing like mischief incarnate.

Kai Valcrosse.

Of course.

He saunters toward us with wet curls, salt on his collarbone, and zero awareness that he’s stepping directly into a staged mass-casualty scenario.

“Tell me this isn’t the island’s idea of morning yoga,” Kai says, surveying the boardwalk. “Drills? Under full sun? What is this, a Valcrosse funeral preview?”

Adrian is already moving. “You’re not cleared for this zone.”

Kai waves him off. “Relax, big brother. I’m just here to see what happens when Adrian Valcrosse tries to choreograph chaos.”

Adrian’s face doesn’t flinch. “This is a critical safety calibration. You’re not funny, and you’re not helping.”

“Oh, I’m hilarious,” Kai says, flashing a smile at a group of lifeguards. “Ask literally anyone except you.”

He steps over a stretcher like it’s a misplaced surfboard and stops beside me. “Tell me, Doc, did he make you draft a 52-page protocol packet with footnotes and a dress code?”

“Yes,” I say, without looking at him. “And I added fifteen pages.”

Kai chuckles. “Knew I liked you.”

“She’s not here to entertain you,” Adrian snaps. “She’s running a drill we actually need.”

Kai raises his eyebrows. “And you’re running it like a PR shoot. I’ve seen less choreography at wedding rehearsals.”

I glance between them with Adrian sharp-edged and simmering, Kai all charm and chaos but it’s clear neither one is going to back down.

The drill isn’t the only thing heating up.

The radios crackle with cross-talk. I catch a lifeguard glancing over his shoulder, hesitating, waiting to see which Valcrosse wins.

That’s the problem with royalty. Everyone else forgets the kingdom’s on fire while the princes squabble.

“Kai,” I say evenly, “either grab a radio and report to Ethan, or get off my damn drill field.”

His brows lift, amused. “Your drill field?”

“That’s right.”

He tilts his head like he’s trying to figure me out. “You’ve got guts, Doc. No wonder Adrian’s pacing like a man who just lost control of his favorite asset.”

“I didn’t lose control,” Adrian bites out. “I delegated it. To someone who doesn’t treat safety like a joke.”

That lands. For half a second, Kai’s smirk wavers. Then it’s back, sharper.

“Right. Because no one’s ever drowned on a perfectly organized spreadsheet.” He gestures at the nearest hydration tent. “Tell me something, Elara, do these drills prepare people for panic? Or just for passing inspection?”

I step into his space, clipboard at my side, pulse ticking hard.

“They prepare them to recognize danger before it escalates. They train muscle memory under pressure. And they make sure our guests don’t die while you’re off joyriding on a jet ski.”

Kai whistles low. “Guess I hit a nerve.”

“You hit arrogance. I’ve seen it before.” My voice is calm, colder now. “Usually from men who think improvising under pressure is a personality trait.”

Adrian lets out the faintest sound, half a laugh, half a breath. His eyes flick to me, then back to Kai.

“This is what leadership looks like,” Adrian says quietly. “You could try it sometime.”

The tension now isn’t heat, it’s static. Unsaid things hanging between brothers, between all three of us.

Kai exhales slowly. “Did you two always have this fun, or just when the board’s watching?”

Then he turns, like he’s going to leave. I almost let my breath go.

But then, behind us, someone screams.

High. Sharp. Childlike.

The scream cuts through the heat like a blade.

Every head turns.

A little girl, maybe seven, maybe eight stumbles out from one of the shaded demo tents. Her straw hat slips sideways. Her eyes are glassy. Her legs fold beneath her like wilted seaweed.

She hits the boardwalk with a soft thud that should be louder.

I’m already moving.

“Kai, shade now! Adrian AED and cold packs!”

They don’t question. That’s how I know this isn’t a game anymore.

I hit the girl’s side in three seconds, knees to wood, fingers to carotid. Her pulse is fast, and thready. Breathing shallow. Skin hot.

“Heat stress,” I call out. “Possible syncope. Maybe an early heatstroke.”

Someone hands me a towel. I shove it under her head. “I need ice. Water. Cold packs. Now.”

Adrian appears at my side with an emergency kit and a bottle of chilled water. He , just drops to one knee and starts opening the pack.

Kai blocks the sun with his body, arms wide, face grim.

The girl whimpers. I cradle her head. “You’re okay,” I murmur. “We’ve got you. Can you tell me your name?”

“…Mira,” she rasps.

“Hi Mira. I’m Dr. Quinn. You’re safe. We’re just helping you cool down, okay?”

She nods faintly, then tries to sit up and sways. I hold her still, pressing the cold pack to her armpits, behind her neck.

“Ethan!” I shout without looking. “Shut down the drill. Evacuate the field. Triage real only.”

“Already on it,” he calls back.

Adrian peels open a bottle, tips it gently toward Mira’s lips. “Just sip,” he says low. “Slow.”

She takes two trembling swallows before her eyes roll slightly. I catch her head, press my wrist to her forehead. Burning.

I look up and every camera is pointed at us.

Tourists. Staff. Even a few board members were watching the show.

Not a drill anymore.

Adrian follows my gaze. “We need a shield,” he mutters.

“No,” I say. “We need a goddamn shade tent and a stretcher. She goes to the clinic. Now.”

His jaw flexes, but he doesn’t argue.

Kai’s already barking at lifeguards, clearing a path, his voice steel.

“She’ll be okay,” Adrian says beside me.

“She better be,” I whisper. “Because if she’s not, this whole island burns.”