Chapter
Fourteen
ISLA
I don’t take long gettingready. There’s too much I need to know.
I speed through a shower. Brush my teeth. Dress in the tailored skirt suit Quinn packed. Paint on a quick layer of makeup. Then whip my hair into a loose chignon I secure with three bobby pins I scavenge from the bottom of my tote bag while I hustle from Raffael’s cabin.
The yacht is quiet as I make my way down the spiral staircase and into the dining room, only to find it completely empty. Not a plate. Not a soul.
In the salon, I catch one of the male crew members from last night stepping in through the glass sliding doors.
“Excuse me…” I throw a pointed glance over my shoulder toward the empty dining area. “Do you know where breakfast is being served?”
He inclines his head with a polite nod. “Yes, ma’am. Upper aft deck.”
I stand there, waiting for more clarification.
He smiles, clearly clocking my ignorance. “Upstairs. Back of the boat.”
“Right. Thank you.”
He gestures behind me. “The quickest way is the spiral staircase and through the lounge.”
I nod tightly. “Thanks again.”
A knot forms in my stomach as I walk away. I grew up with money—West Village brownstone, private school, a summer house in Maine. But not multi-deck-yacht kind of wealth. Raffael has always lived in a different stratosphere, yet with the bright spring sun gleaming off every polished surface of this mansion-on-water, the distance between our worlds has never felt more blinding.
I step past the lounge doors and out into the open air.
The breeze catches my hair, cool and clean, and I pause to take in my surroundings.
No land. No shoreline. Just endless water and the faint outline of skyscrapers, distant through the morning haze.
The yacht coasts forward, slicing through open sea.
I’m miles out. Cut off. Removed from everything buthim.
He’s already seated at a thick teak table, coffee in hand, sheets of paper in the other, relaxed like it’s any other Tuesday.
He doesn’t acknowledge my arrival. Not even with a glance.
“Coffee, Ms. Cross?” Elena glides around the table and pulls out the chair opposite Raffael.
“Thank you.” I nod numbly and sit.
“Pancakes are the featured breakfast this morning.” She pours me a glass of sparkling water. “But the chef is happy to accommodate any request.”
“I’m not overly hungry.” Though the pancakes give me pause. I’m not usually one to pass up the ultimate breakfast meal.
“You need to eat,” Raffael mutters, gaze still locked on his papers.
I offer a tight smile, blinking slowly. Performative peace draped over reawakening hostility.
“Why don’t I ask the chef to prepare you a plate anyway?” Elena offers, cutting through the tension. “Maybe you’ll be hungry once it arrives.”
“Yes, do that.” Raffael flips to the next page of his document.
