A D R I A N

The suite is silent, but my head is still back on the lagoon.

The boy’s coughs. The flash of phones. The tourists whispered like they’d stumbled into a theater instead of a near-disaster. And above it all—her voice.

Elara Quinn didn’t just command. She owned the air.

“Four minutes without oxygen—funerals.” The words hit harder than the crowd’s gasp, harder than the mother’s scream. They were sharp, unshakable, absolute. Staff obeyed her without question, as though she carried my crest on her chest instead of a stethoscope.

I pace in front of the glass wall, the island stretching below like a kingdom I should control. But all I hear is her—cutting through panic, steady as stone while I hesitated.

My anger feeds on the memory. I should’ve overridden her. Should’ve reminded everyone whose name is carved into Seraphine’s gates. But for the length of those critical minutes, I didn’t. I listened. I respected her.

The word itself feels like rust in my mouth. Respect isn’t what I give. Respect is what’s owed to me by contract, by birthright, by every hour I’ve bled into this empire. And yet she—an outsider, a doctor hired because PR insisted we needed one—stood on my stage and took it.

I close my eyes, jaw tight, but it doesn’t silence the echo of the crowd. Are they fighting? No—they’re something else.

Enemies to lovers. Doctor versus heir. Already the rumor mill churns, reducing my authority into spectacle, her defiance into attraction.

For a flicker of a moment, I almost liked it. That they saw us as equals. That her presence matched mine. Almost.

Almost is unacceptable.

I drop into the leather chair, elbows braced on my knees, and drag a hand through my hair. The lagoon shouldn’t haunt me. Incidents happen, optics get managed, narratives spun. That’s Marina’s job, not mine. Yet I can’t stop replaying the moment when my staff looked at her and obeyed.

What gnaws deeper isn’t the spectacle. It’s the fact that I let it happen. I didn’t bark her down, didn’t silence her orders. I stood there and, for the first time in years, I deferred.

The admission burns.

I’ve never respected the women who warm my bed. That’s not what they’re there for. They come because they like the rules: no names, no kisses, no intimacy. I give them command, they give me obedience, and we both walk away untouched. Efficient. Controlled. Clean.

But Elara Quinn? She doesn’t bend, doesn’t flatter. She doesn’t play the role of adoring subordinate. She throws my arrogance back in my face, calls negligence by name, makes demands instead of requests. And I hated her for it—until I didn’t.

The contrast splits me open.

The faceless lovers submit, but leave me hollow. Elara defies, and I can’t stop thinking about her. Her voice lingers in my head long after the crowd’s noise has faded. Her eyes, steady gray-green, locked on mine like I was the one on trial.

I tell myself it’s fury that makes my pulse quicken. That I want to put her back in her place, prove she can’t rival me in my own kingdom. But that’s not the truth, not all of it.

The truth is more dangerous:

Respect feels heavier than desire.

And I don’t know if I hate her more for forcing me to admit it—or myself for letting her.

I pour a measure of Bluefire rum, Seraphine’s signature burn, and lift it to my lips. The scent alone should settle me, remind me of control, of heritage. Instead it tastes like surrender. I set it down. Then, with a sharp twist of my wrist, I hurl it into the sink. The glass shatters, amber splashing the steel.

Control doesn’t slip. It breaks.

I brace both hands on the counter, head bowed. My mother’s name still glows phantom-bright in my mind, her call unanswered at the lagoon. Isabella never calls idly. She would have told me I’d failed. That I let a stranger cut me down in front of guests, investors, cameras. That respect isn’t granted, it’s seized.

I ignored her. Let the screen dim. A son defying his mother. An heir rejecting the crown’s counsel. The tabloids will feast. But what lingers isn’t the scandal—it’s the reason I didn’t answer.

Elara had already shaken me.

The thought hammers in with every heartbeat. If I had taken that call, it wouldn’t have been my mother I was answering to. It would’ve been an admission that she was right. That Elara Quinn was right.

I slam the sink tap open, water rushing hard, drowning out the silence. My reflection warps in the steel basin: jaw rigid, eyes bloodshot, a man who cannot afford cracks. Yet here I am, fractured by a woman I should have crushed with a word.

Respect.

The word thrums in my chest like a curse.

And the worst part is—I don’t know how to strip it away.

I can’t stay still. The suite is too quiet, the ocean too loud. I pace the length of the room, bare feet striking the marble in clipped rhythm, like I’m marching toward a verdict I don’t want delivered. Every turn of the glass wall reflects me back—heir, commander, fraud.

Beyond the window, Seraphine gleams like a jewel. The boardwalk still glows faintly, tourists drifting below, unaware their prince is unraveling above them. I imagine their voices: gossip over cocktails, speculating if the heir has lost his grip. I imagine the articles Isabella is drafting in her mind, sharpening words into knives. And I imagine Elara Quinn, still awake somewhere on this island, her spine as unyielding as the cliffs.

Finally, I yank the laptop open. The screen’s glow cuts through the dark, sterile and clinical. My fingers hover before slamming into motion.

Audit.

Island-wide. Non-negotiable.

Emergency drills. Equipment staging. Double staff during peak hours. Procurement orders accelerated. AEDs at every dock. EpiPens in every bar. Heat tents at every performance site. Extra divers on standby. Faster reporting chains.

The list grows ruthless, each line item another admission that Elara Quinn was right.

I tell myself it’s optics, damage control before Lantern Tide. That I’m protecting the Valcrosse name from the stain of negligence. But the truth lurks under every keystroke: this isn’t my idea. It’s hers. Her voice echoes in every bullet point, every demand, every necessity I used to sneer at.

I pause, exhale hard. The audit schedule glares back from the screen. Ten days. Impossible for anyone else. Necessary for me.

I press send. The system pings, alerts scattering to every department head, every manager, every corner of my island. Tomorrow, Seraphine bends to my command.

And yet… not entirely mine.

Because when the drills begin, when the equipment arrives, when the staff fall into place, they’ll see her shadow behind it. They’ll know this came from the doctor who refused to bow.

The cursor blinks at the bottom of the document, a silent dare.

No. This isn’t her victory. This is mine.

The laptop hums, the audit dispatched, the orders irreversible. For the first time since the lagoon, the silence feels like victory. Except it isn’t clean.

Because I didn’t win tonight. I yielded.

I shove back from the desk and stalk to the glass wall. Seraphine sprawls below, jeweled lights scattered across the boardwalk, the lagoon glowing faintly blue in the distance. My island. My crown. My responsibility.

And yet all I can see is her standing on that dock, spine straight, voice cutting like a blade, commanding a crowd that should’ve been mine.

I press my palm to the glass, jaw locked. She thinks autonomy is her right. She thinks conviction alone can grant her power here.

Not on my island. Not in my legacy.

My reflection stares back, sharp-edged and ruthless. The heir, the commander, the man who will not be undermined.

“If she wants autonomy,” I mutter, the vow tasting like steel, “she’ll earn it—at my side.”

And tomorrow, I’ll make sure of it.