“Except where Santino ended, and the cosmetic enhancements began,” Bess adds, causing a nearby guest to choke on her champagne.
I scan the room as applause follows the conclusion of Val and Santino’s performance—one of their best, honestly.
Beth stands near the edge of the gathered crowd, her fingers twisting the strap of her evening bag into a tortured knot. Her eyes keep darting to the entrance as if expecting, or dreading, someone’s arrival.
“Lance is still missing,” I murmur to Wes, who maintains his position beside me in all his captain’s glory. “As in, Dr. Luca Carrington Jr.? I don’t see him around.”
“I noticed that, too,” Wes says, keeping his voice to a whisper. “It’s not like a soap star to miss an opportunity for camera time.”
Marlie’s ghost materializes between us, causing Wes to shiver involuntarily as she passes partially through his shoulder.
“Something is definitely up,” she announces. “I can do a quick recon mission if you’d like. Being dead has its advantages. No one complains when I enter a room without knocking.”
“If you wouldn’t mind,” I whisper. Usually, I don’t talk to invisible entities in public since it’s generally frowned upon, even on cruise ships where the behavior standards are considerably more relaxed than on land. But Wes is with me, and well, by this point, everyone in the room has had enough champagne not to care.
“Back in a flash!” She salutes dramatically before floatingupward through the ceiling. It’s clear she’s embracing the role of spectral detective with enthusiasm.
“Did you just send your ghost friend on a reconnaissance mission?” Wes asks, with a look of both amusement and resignation.
“I neither confirm nor deny the deployment of supernatural assets,” I reply with a wink.
Boomer’s voice booms across the lounge once more. “Next up, we have Bridge and Harper Blackthorne, the fashion dynasty power couple whose combined screen time spans nearly five decades!”
It’s Harper Bailey, but who cares at this point? Playing fast and loose with the truth is basically the job of half the people in this room.
Bridge strides to the center stage area as if walking a runway, his all-black ensemble making him look like a particularly handsome undertaker. Harper glides beside him, her ruby lips curved in a smile that doesn’t look all that friendly or amorous.
“Fashion,” Bridge begins, raising his champagne flute, “like revenge, is best served with impeccable timing.” He gives the cameras his signature smoldering stare, the one that’s launched a thousand fan clubs. Heck, even the man’s cheekbones have fan clubs. And I think I was the president of that once, way back when. “When I met Harper, I recognized a kindred spirit—someone who understood that appearances can be deceiving, but a well-tailored jacket is always truthful.”
Harper’s laugh tinkles like ice in a crystal glass. “What most people don’t know about Bridge and me is that our relationship began as research.” She turns to the camera with those intense dark eyes. “I was studying the habits of predators in their natural habitat.”
The audience laughs, assuming it’s a joke. I’m not so sure.
“Tonight is particularly special,” Harper continues, her voicetaking on an edge that makes the hair on my arms stand on end. “A night when justice is finally being served, along with these excellent canapés.”
Bridge looks momentarily confused by her toast, but recovers as if she’s been dealing with outlandish script changes for decades. “To justice, fashion, and my exquisite wife,” he concludes, clinking his glass against hers.
“Did that sound ominous to you?” I whisper to Wes.
“Extremely,” he confirms. “And did you notice how she emphasized ‘justice’ while looking directly at Luca Carrington Jr.’s empty spot?”
Before I can respond, Boomer is calling for Beth and Lance, AKA Luca, to take the stage. Beth steps forward alone, her pink gown trembling along with her body. She looks like a rose caught in a windstorm, beautiful but in danger of being torn apart.
“Beth, where is your handsome husband?” Boomer asks, his smile firmly fixed, but his eyes darting around the room in a panic.
“He’s... um, freshening up,” Beth stammers. “He’ll be along shortly.”
I don’t need my supernatural abilities to recognize a lie when I hear one. Not that they would, but still.
As if summoned by my skepticism, Marlie’s ghost rockets back through the ceiling, her soap-worthy face a mask of alarm. She barrels toward me with such urgency that several guests shiver as she passes through them, creating what they probably assume is an unusually icy draft. Good thing we’re in Norway.
“Trixie!” she calls out, skidding to a halt just inches from my face. “Lance is down! He’s in his cabin; he’s barely conscious. There’s a half-empty smoothie glass next to him, and he keeps mumbling ‘she poisoned me’ between retches.”
My blood runs cold. I shoot a glance at Beth, whose nervous fidgeting has evolved into full-blown trembling.
Movement at the back of the lounge catchesmy eye as Ransom dashes into the room, his suit slightly rumpled as if he’s been running a marathon. His eyes scan the crowd with the efficiency only a security officer can bring before locking onto mine. The intensity of his gaze tells me everything I need to know—something is very wrong.
He makes his way through the crowd with deceptive casualness, never drawing attention to himself despite his imposing presence. And when he reaches us, he doesn’t waste time with pleasantries.
