No sooner does he say it than Julian Whitmore enters from the hallway outside. He moves with the unhurried confidence of a man who's facilitated countless transactions for oligarchs and royalty. Late fifties, silver hair immaculately styled, Savile Row suit. His handshake is firm, assessing. I've been sized up by men like him my entire career.
"Mr. Baine. Good to see you again." He settles into the chair across from us, opening a leather portfolio. "Shall we discuss your acquisition?"
He spreads photographs across the polished surface, and my attention sharpens.
The sailing yacht is stunning. Seventy-two feet of classic elegance that makes the modern monstrosities cluttering the Mediterranean look like floating shopping malls. Wood hull, teak and mahogany gleaming in the photographs, brass fittings polished to mirrors. Three masts. Clean lines that speak to racing heritage while promising comfort.
Larger thanIcarus, my forty-five-footer where I proposed to Avery. But the same essential spirit—a vessel built for the water rather than for showing off.
"Built in 1936," Whitmore says, his voice taking on the reverent tone of a curator discussing a masterpiece. "Fully restored two years ago by a private owner in Dubrovnik. Wood hull, copper fastenings, everything authentic. Modernnavigation and safety systems integrated seamlessly. You'd never know they were there unless you looked."
I study the photographs, cataloging details. The deck layout would give Avery space to sketch without being in the crew's way. The cockpit is designed for easy handling. We could sail her ourselves for stretches if we wanted privacy. The profile is graceful without being ostentatious.
"And the customizations I requested?"
Whitmore pulls out interior renderings. "The master cabin has been completely redesigned. Larger portholes for natural light. I understand your fiancée is an artist?"
I nod. Avery needs light the way other people need air. Even on our honeymoon, she'll want to paint, to capture whatever moves her. I want to give her a space where she can create.
"Built-in shelving for art supplies and sketchbooks along the port wall. Warm color palette—creams, natural wood tones, soft gold accents. The master cabin suite is exquisite, with king-size accommodations and custom woodworking throughout." He shows me another rendering: a cabin that looks more like a luxury boutique hotel suite than a boat berth. "The en-suite has been upgraded with marble and brass fixtures."
"The library nook?"
"Installed in the main salon, as you specified." Another image: built-in bookshelves flanking a cushioned window seat, brass reading lamps with green glass shades. "Stocked with classic literature. First editions where I could source them."
I can picture Avery there, curled up with a book, afternoon light streaming through the portholes, wearing one of my shirts and nothing else. Reading aloud to me while I trace patterns on her bare thigh. The image settles into my chest, warm and certain.
"The galley has professional-grade appliances," Whitmore continues. "I understand you enjoy cooking."
"I do." I'll make her breakfast on that yacht. Dinners under stars. The kind of meals I never had time for when my life was nothing but work and the hollow pursuit of more.
Beck makes a quiet sound beside me. "You've thought of everything."
"That was the intention." I meet his eyes briefly. He knows what this yacht represents. Not just a honeymoon vessel, but a promise. A sanctuary I can give her away from the cameras, the speculation, the relentless scrutiny that comes with being tied to my name.
"The name," Whitmore says. "You requestedElysium?"
"Yes."
He doesn't ask why, and I don't explain.Elysium—the paradise reserved for heroes in Greek mythology. The place of rest after struggle. It felt right the moment it occurred to me, though I haven't told Avery yet. Haven't told anyone.
"Registry transfer includes renaming rights. She's currently calledAphrodite's Blessing." Whitmore makes a note. "The paperwork is prepared."
"Delivery timeline?"
"Three weeks until customizations are complete. She's in a yard outside Marseille. After that, a delivery crew will deliver her to any port of your choosing. From there, we'll arrange transport to Monaco for your honeymoon departure."
I run the math. Three weeks puts her completion just before the wedding. We fly to Monaco after the ceremony, meet the yacht there, and disappear into the Mediterranean for a month. No schedule. No obligations. Just Avery and open water and all the time I've been desperate to give her.
"Sounds good," I say.
Whitmore leans back slightly, his sales pitch complete but his manner still engaged. "You know, you weren't the only party interested in this vessel."
I look up. "No?"
"Another client of mine put in quite an aggressive bid."
Curiosity gets the best of me. “Who was it?”
