I’m thrown sideways into the shelving, bottles rattling and crashing down around us. Jameson cries out as the floor tilts, the whole boat jerking like something has slammed into it.
Metal screams somewhere deep in the hull.
A grinding roar follows—loud and brutal—shaking the walls, the floor, everything. The closet shudders as the yacht scrapes against something solid.
Jameson clutches my shirt, crying now. “Lottie!”
“I’ve got you,” I say, my voice shaking.
The grinding drags on, endless, like the boat’s being torn across rock. Something crashes nearby. Glass shatters.
Then it stops.
The silence that follows feels wrong.
No gentle rocking. No movement.
The yacht sits still, tilted at an angle.
Jameson sniffles against me.
At some point, the shouting stops too. I don’t know when.
Time stretches in the dark. Each second drags, slow and uneven.
Jameson is curled into me, his face pressed against my shoulder, fingers twisted tight in my shirt.
Above us—nothing.
No footsteps. No voices. No gunshots.
Just silence.
He lifts his head slightly, and I can feel him looking at me even though I can’t see his face.
“What’s happening?” he whispers.
I swallow. “I think something broke. They’re probably fixing it.”
It sounds weak as soon as I say it.
He doesn’t answer right away. His breathing stays uneven, like he’s trying not to cry again.
“Where are Mum and Dad?”
My chest tightens. “They’re upstairs. Probably talking to the crew.”
A door creaks somewhere down the hall, and a second later I hear Ryan’s voice.
“I think we ran aground. I’m going up to see what happened.”
“I’m coming with you,” Dane says.
“No.”
Ryan doesn’t raise his voice, but it shuts it down anyway.
“You stay here. Keep quiet.”
