But I'm tired. God, I'm so tired of this cycle.
"How long?" I demand, my hands gripping the counter's edge so hard my knuckles turn white. "How long have you been using?"
Maya's gaze drops to the floor, her fingers picking at the hem of her shirt with nervous energy. "A few weeks. Maybe a month. I don't… time kind of blurs together, you know?"
A month. She relapsed a month ago, which means she was using before I even left for that yacht party. Before the storm. Before everything changed. All those cheerful texts about NA meetings, all those updates about how good she was doing, all lies. The betrayal cuts deeper than I expect, slicing through the careful numbness I've wrapped around myself.
"Where did you get the money?" The question comes out quieter, more dangerous. "Your rent isn't due for another week. You don't have a job. So where did you get the money for drugs, Maya?"
The day I got called for the catering job on the yacht, she'd called and asked for money.
Her face goes even paler, if that's possible, and I watch her throat work as she swallows. "I borrowed it. From someone. Just to get by while you were gone, you know? I thought… I thought I'd be able to pay it back before you got home."
The words hang in the air between us like a guillotine blade waiting to drop. I think of Nikolai's world, of the cold efficiency with which he eliminated threats. I think of the way his hands moved when he caught that fish in the shallows, lethal precision wrapped in deceptive calm. I think of the darkness that lives beneath his expensive suits and cultured exterior, and my stomach turns over.
"Who did you borrow from?" My voice barely rises above a whisper, but Maya flinches like I've shouted.
"Just… just some guy. A loan shark, I guess. He operates out of the industrial district, helps people who can't get regular loans." She's talking faster now, words tumbling over each other in her desperation to explain. "He seemed nice at first, you know? Really understanding about my situation. He said the interest was reasonable, that I could pay him back in installments."
I close my eyes, fighting the urge to scream. Of course he seemed nice. Predators always do, right up until they have their teeth in your throat. "How much, Maya? How much do you owe?"
The silence stretches so long, I think she's not going to answer. When she finally speaks, her voice is barely audible. "Fifty thousand dollars."
The number hits me like a physical blow, stealing the breath from my lungs. Fifty thousand dollars. That's more than I make in six months, maybe longer if I'm being honest about the lean periods when clients cancel or choose cheaper options. That's the kind of debt that doesn't just disappear. That's the kind of debt that follows you, that grows teeth and claws and destroys everything you've built.
My hands shake as I grip the counter, my mind racing through impossible calculations. I could liquidate my business, sell every piece of equipment, and break my lease on the commercial kitchen. Maybe that would cover half of it. Maybe. But then I'd have nothing, no way to earn money, no way to dig us out of the hole Maya's addiction has created.
I think of the envelope Cyril pressed into my hands, thick with cash. Payment for the catering job I never completed, pluscompensation for my ordeal. I haven't opened it yet, haven't counted the bills inside, but I know it won't be enough. Not for this.
I think of Nikolai's ice-blue eyes watching me drive away, the raw longing on his face that made my certainty crumble. I think of his world, of the power and resources at his command, of how easily he could make this problem disappear. The thought makes my skin crawl with shame and something else I refuse to examine too closely.
I can't involve him in this. I won't. Maya is my responsibility, my burden to carry. I've been cleaning up her messes since she was twelve years old, and I'll figure out how to clean up this one, too. Somehow.
"He's already called twice today." Maya's voice trembles, genuine fear finally breaking through the drug-induced haze. "Asking when he's getting paid. He said… he said he knows where you live. Where I live. He said if I don't start making payments, he'll…" She trails off, but I don't need her to finish the sentence.
16
NIKOLAI
The silence in my private office at The Golden Lion is so complete, I can hear my own heartbeat, a steady rhythm that feels too loud in the soundproofed space. I've always appreciated this room's ability to swallow noise, to create a bubble where secrets can be discussed without fear of surveillance or eavesdropping. Tonight, though, the quiet feels oppressive, like the walls are closing in with each breath I take.
Yaroslav Karenina sits across from me, his fingers trembling slightly as he connects my watch to his laptop. He's the best tech specialist money can buy, a man who can extract data from devices most people don't even know are capable of storing information. His reputation for discretion is the only reason he's still breathing after some of the things he's seen while working for me.
"The saltwater damage was minimal," Yaroslav says, his accent thicker than mine, each word carefully pronounced. "The casing held. All the data survived intact."
I lean back in my chair, forcing my body into a relaxed posture that contradicts the tension coiling through my muscles. Three weeks of data. Three weeks of my life reduced to numbers and graphs, GPS coordinates and biometric readings. The watch tracked everything while Aria and I survived on that island, while I made the choice to keep us stranded, and while I fell for a woman I had no business touching.
The laptop screen fills with information, columns of data that Yaroslav navigates with practiced efficiency. I watch the GPS coordinates plot our location, a single point in the vast ocean that became our entire world. Heart rate data shows spikes during the storm, during our arguments, during sex.
"Your vital signs remained stable throughout," Yaroslav reports, his eyes scanning the readouts. "No signs of infection or serious injury beyond the head trauma from the initial impact. Your recovery was remarkably fast."
I nod, barely listening. My attention has caught on a different file, one labeledBiometric Analysis—Secondary Subject. The watch didn't just track me. It tracked her, too. Every moment she was close enough, every time we touched, the sensors collected data about Aria's body with the same medical-grade precision they used on mine.
Yaroslav's finger hovers over the file, and I watch his face go carefully blank. It's an expression I recognize, the one people wear when they've discovered something they wish they hadn't. Something that could get them killed if they're not careful about how they present it.
"Open it," I command, my voice dropping to the tone that makes grown men flinch.
He clicks, and the screen fills with graphs and numbers that mean nothing to me at first. Hormone levels. Resting heart rate. Body temperature fluctuations. I lean forward, trying to make sense of the medical jargon, and that's when I see it.
