A D R I A N

The clinic hums with recycled air and adrenaline.
Mira’s color is back, pulse steady, IV dripping slow. Asha calls vitals in a calm voice that sounds like salvation. Kai stands guard at the door, shirt drenched, still barking orders into his radio like the storm hasn’t ended.

I press a cool pack to the girl’s temple and feel her skin cooling under my palm. The small sigh that leaves her chest knocks something loose in mine. She’s going to live. We bought her that.

Elara meets my eyes across the cot with hair damp, throat gleaming with sweat, expression stripped bare of everything but focus. No triumph. Just relief. She exhales once, then looks toward the clinic window where the glass has turned into a wall of faces and flashing lenses.

Marina is out there, tablet lifted like a scepter, whispering into a cameraman’s ear. Her smile is shark-smooth. I can almost read her lips: brand salvation.

Elara wipes her hands, rips off her gloves, and straightens. “If she stabilizes in thirty minutes, discharge to air-cooled recovery,” she tells Asha. Then she glances at me quickly, professional and something burning underneath. “We should go before Marina writes the story without us.”

I nod once, because she’s right.

Outside, the boardwalk is blinding. The crowd parts for us like a tide around rock, phones still raised. I feel the shift as we step into sunlight, how every breath turns into spectacle.

The cameras are already warm when we walk out. The air tastes like salt, sunscreen, and anticipation.

Marina moves fast, headset in, smile calibrated to appear sincere. “We’ll do a short statement,” she says, voice sweetened for the microphones. “Doctor Quinn on the medical angle, Adrian on resort operations. Keep it calm. Controlled. United.”

United. That word hits somewhere between my ribs.

Reporters cluster in a crescent around us. Flashbulbs strobe. I spot my reflection in a dozen lenses, jaw tight, shirt rolled to the elbow, sweat still drying on my neck. Elara stands half a step beside me, hair escaping her braid, the faintest streak of salt on her cheek. She looks alive in a way I’ve never seen.

Marina gestures sharply. “Rolling in three… two..”

“Thank you for your patience,” I start, voice smooth, measured. “Today’s heat drill exposed vulnerabilities we take seriously. Our team..”

Elara steps in, seamless. “responded within seconds. The guest is stable, receiving continued care. We’ve activated new cooling stations across the boardwalk effective immediately.”

The way she says we,  almost undoes me. Our rhythm clicks into place without rehearsal: I pivot to brand, she pivots to safety; I feed her numbers, she turns them into compassion. Each line balances the other until the whole thing sounds like choreography.

Someone shouts a question “Doctor Quinn, did this reveal systemic negligence?”

Her answer is steel wrapped in silk. “It revealed that prevention saves lives. And that teamwork matters more than optics.”

I should stop her. I don’t. The cameras drink it in. The island holds its breath.

When the next flash goes off, her hand brushes the small of my back , light, steady and grounding. To anyone else, it’s nothing. To me, it’s the first calm I’ve felt in hours.

The line of microphones sways as another gust comes off the bay. I adjust my stance so the press lights catch the Valcrosse crest on my shirt, small, deliberate signal that the resort is standing firm. Beside me, Elara answers questions as if she’s been trained for this all her life.

We move as one unit now. She speaks, I translate it into business language; I list protocol changes, she humanizes each one. Every exchange feeds the next, a rhythm so precise that the cameras start lowering instead of flashing, they’re watching and not hunting.

A reporter calls out, “What about accountability, Mr Valcrosse?”

I don’t glance at my notes. “Accountability means resources, training, and the right people in charge.” I gesture toward Elara. “That begins with her team.”

Her eyes flicker just a flash of surprise at being acknowledged in front of every camera on the island. She doesn’t flinch from it. “Safety isn’t a headline,” she adds. “It’s a promise we keep.”

The crowd quiets. Even the gulls above the boardwalk seem to hold their cry for a beat.

At the edge of the crowd, Marina mouths her usual cue smile and finish the show but it barely grazes our attention.. I notice a smear of salt still drying at Elara’s hairline, and something in my chest loosens. We’ve turned a potential disaster into control again, and I know exactly why: because she stood beside me, not behind me.

I clear my throat. “Seraphine thanks our guests for their patience,” I say. “And our staff for their composure. Dr Quinn’s new emergency measures begin tonight. We invite every guest to learn from them, it’s the best way to keep paradise safe.”

The words land like a benediction. Applause breaks out, cautious at first, then genuine. Phones rise for the final shots: me shaking hands with medical staff, Elara crouching beside a row of new cooling tents where volunteers hand out water.

When the crowd begins to scatter, Marina steps forward. “Perfect,” she breathes, already scrolling through her footage. “That’s the clip that will bury the scandal.”

I force a polite nod. “Send me the draft before release.”

“Of course,” she says too quickly.

Elara folds a towel over her wrist and glances toward the clinic. “I’m going to re-check Mira before the sedatives wear off.”

“Go,” I say, softer than intended.

She hesitates, studying me for a heartbeat. “You did well out there.”

“So did you.”

Her smile is small but real. “Try not to let Marina rewrite it.”

Then she’s gone, walking into the gold light that spills across the boardwalk. The crowd parts for her again, slower this time, almost respectful.

I watch until the last flash fades. The applause still hums in my ears like surf against rock, loud enough to hide the thought that keeps circling: maybe the island doesn’t need a prince of optics; it needs a doctor who can command him without even trying.

I exhale, straighten my cuffs, and turn back toward the waiting cameras, already composing the statement I’ll give about unity and forward motion.

Behind me, Marina’s voice is a whisper into her headset. “Cut the doctor’s close-ups,” she says. “Keep the heir front and center. That’s the story people want.”

I don’t hear her. Not yet.

By dusk the island looks clean again. Guests drift through the boardwalk as if nothing happened; music from the evening lounge spills like sugar into the air. Every trace of panic has been polished out of sight.

I lean on the balcony rail outside the media office, jacket slung over one shoulder, sleeves still rolled. Below, the lagoon mirrors the sky in streaks of coral and blue. For once, I allow myself to breathe. The crisis is over. The island is safe. The numbers will recover.

I replay the afternoon on my phone with raw footage from the press pool, the one unedited file Marina sent “for reference.” I should be checking for technical errors, but instead I’m watching the rhythm between myself and Elara. The unspoken cues. The way her voice steadied mine when I almost stumbled over the word accountability.
We look like a team. No, like something closer.

When she’d touched my back, just a breath of contact, the crowd had gone quiet. That stillness plays again on the screen; I can almost feel it through the glass of the phone, through the thin skin over my ribs. I catch myself smiling, then erase it quickly before anyone sees.

The door clicks behind me. Marina steps out, hair perfect again, tablet in hand. “You’re trending,” she says, pleased. “#ValcrosseIntegrity, #SafeInSeraphine, #LanternReady. The optics are spectacular.”

I don’t look up. “Send me the final cut.”

“Already queued,” she says, sliding the tablet toward me.

The edited clip begins with a wide shot of the crowd. Music swells underneath, triumphant and harmless. I wait for the moment Elara steps beside me, for the close-up of her hand steady on the microphone.

It never comes.

The frame tightens, on me.
Every question answered, every order given, every credit line trimmed to sound singular. Her voice, the bridge between fact and calm, is gone. In its place, a faceless nurse passes me a towel. The tagline blooms across the screen: Adrian Valcrosse: Leadership Under Pressure.

I freeze.

Marina’s voice softens as if to soothe a child. “This version tests better. You are the face of reassurance, it sells confidence. The doctor was wonderful, of course, but anonymous competence photographs better. Don’t worry; she’s mentioned in the press release.”

I set the tablet down carefully, as though it’s fragile. “You erased her.”

“We streamlined,” she corrects. “The brand needs a single voice.”

“She is the reason the brand still exists.” My voice drops to something dangerous. “You’ll restore her footage. Every second.”

Her smile wavers for the first time all day. “Adrian..”

“Do it.” I step closer, and the lights from the lagoon catch in my eyes like flares. “You think the public wants a prince of optics? They’ll trust us when they see the woman who saved their child.”

She folds her arms, all practiced calm again. “I’ll discuss it with the board.”

I watch her retreat down the corridor, phone already at her ear, whispering damage control. The door closes, and silence folds around me.

Below, lanterns begin to rise over the bay with soft points of gold drifting toward the horizon. Staff are testing them for the upcoming festival. They lift slowly, one by one, and for a moment it looks like the island itself is exhaling light.

I scroll back to the raw footage, to the few seconds of Elara’s hand on my back. I save the clip to my private drive before the system can overwrite it. The world may never see that touch, but I won’t let it disappear entirely.

Somewhere inside the clinic, she’s still awake, charting vitals, unaware that her presence has already been rewritten.

I look out over the water, jaw set. “Not this time,” I murmur. “She won’t vanish for my sake.”

The lanterns keep rising, small suns against the darkening sky, each one a reminder that what survives the tide is what refuses to be erased.