If Catholics are dogged by a perpetual guilt, Roshaan is haunted by an Islamic equivalent. Hers is more akin to shame. It’s embedded deep in her subterranean soul despite having abandoned her faith sixteen years ago, when she left her small fishing village on the Cape Peninsula of South Africa, chasing freedom and self-discovery abroad. She’s thirty-five now, and no closer to finding meaning or purpose. And her damn biological clock ticks louder by the week. The clock has a voice that sounds like her mother.
You’ll be an old maid, Roshaan. You should have married Ahmed. He’s a good boy. By now you’d have children. At least you’d know how to cook ...
Roshaan glowers at Zeus, daring him to aim his bolt anywhere but at her. But the Greek god’s steel-gray eyes remain locked on hers—seeing what she’s done, knowing where she has hidden each tiny espionage device in each guest suite.
Theo’s darkly seductive, deep voice crawls back into her brain.
Those cams are so incredibly tiny, Rosh, no one will see them. They’re battery powered, motion sensing, sound activated, Wi-Fi connected as opposed to Bluetooth. Footage stored on the cloud ...
“Roshaan!”
She flinches at the sound of Maxine Morello’s voice in her earpiece.
“Your guests Lillith McGregor and her assistant, Poppy Buchanan, are embarking. And the Gideon Marsh party are on their way,” says the director of VIPs.
The elevator pings. Doors slide open. Roshaan steps inside, presses the dolphin-shaped button. “On my way. Any ETA on the Fairfax party yet?”
“Negative. They haven’t checked in. Terminal staff tried calling—no answer yet.”
When the doors open, Roshaan hurries over to Maxine, who’s already greeting the next arrivals. One is a frumpy woman in her mid-fifties wearing a travel-wrinkled blazer, square-toed sandals, owlish glasses. Her T-shirt sticks to her belly with sweat, and her face is blotchy red. Behindher she drags two carry-ons, and she has a heavy-looking bag slung over her shoulder. She’s exactly the kind of woman Roshaan is terrified of becoming. Beside her is an older, frail woman bent over her cane.
Roshaan recognizes the older woman instantly. Her black eye patch is iconic. She’s Lillith Ravenscroft McGregor, straight from the recentVanity Faircover.
“Ah, here’s Roshaan now,” Maxine says brightly in her Italian-accented English. “Roshaan, this is Lillith McGregor and her assistant, Poppy Buchanan. Roshaan is your dedicated concierge. Anything you need—day or night—on board or ashore, she’ll be there for you.”
Roshaan forces a smile as guilt deepens in her gut. “Welcome aboard, Ms. McGregor. Ms. Buchanan.”
“Please call me Lillith.”
“Of course. You’ll be in our Elysium Sky Villa, with the adjacent suite for your assistant. I can escort you both there now, if you like, so you can settle in before checking in to your designated muster station.” She signals a porter as she speaks.
The porter steps forward to take the luggage, but Poppy tightens her grip on the cases.
“No, thanks,” she mutters to the porter. “I can manage.”
Lillith shoots Poppy an inquiring glance.
“Really, I can manage. I’m quite capable.”
The women both fall in line behind Roshaan as she leads them to the elevators. Lillith moves slowly, cane tapping, leg dragging. Poppy lumbers with the suitcases behind her.
At the elevator Roshaan presses the call button. “If at any time you’d like a mobility aid—a scooter or a wheelchair—I can—”
“I might look old and tired, dear,” Lillith cuts in. “But one must keep the joints moving.”
“Of course,” Roshaan replies smoothly. “I mention it only because your intake form noted that mobility assistance be made available if needed.”
Roshaan already knows a great deal about her guests, including what they like to eat and drink, plus their wellness and entertainment preferences, along with any other little idiosyncrasies. She’s passed it all on to Theo.
They step into the glass elevator. Roshaan presses the button for Deck 13. As the glass cylinder begins to ascend, she says, “Deck 13 houses most of our select suites. Above, on Deck 14, you’ll find the elite-exclusive pools, spa, and dining areas. Launch cocktails will be served there tonight.”
As the cylindrical elevator climbs, the glass walls offer an increasingly dramatic bird’s-eye view of the atrium unfolding below. A promenade spirals around the atrium and is filled with a lively swirl of guests and crew.
“It’s beautiful,” Lillith murmurs. “More like an exotic hotel, or a mall in Dubai, than a ship.”
“It is,” Roshaan says with another practiced smile. “These elevators were conceived as undersea columns to ferry guests up and down like divers being lowered into the ocean. That’s why there are tiny bubbles embedded in the glass walls.”
Through the bubbled glass Roshaan suddenly spots Theo below, moving through the crowd directly toward Maxine at the entrance. Her pulse quickens.
