Page 25 of A Perfect Disaster

The music gradually cranks up the volume. Violet and gold lights sweep across the rows of lounge chairs, catching the glint of the glasses and fading into the sea.

Helen is on the right side of the stage, slightly set apart from the main flow of guests. She scans the space with the radio clenched in her right hand, analyzing the crowd’s behavior as if she could predict a bottleneck before it even forms. She’s wearing the formal uniform; the dark shirt hugs her body in a way that I now consider a public danger to my concentration. Her hair is pulled back in a strict style, clearing her features and accentuating that stern expression that I can no longer label as mere coldness. Now I discern the weight of responsibility, the rigor, and that almost pathological need to shield her surroundings so that no one suffers even the slightest scratch.

The stage spotlights sweep over her intermittently, casting sharp contrasts across her skin. My physical memory, which pays no heed to ranks or stormy pasts, takes charge of evoking the warmth of her body against mine just a few hours ago in the technical corridor. A sharp chill runs through my stomach.

“Focus, Maika.”

The DJ drops the first hard transition and the crowd responds in unison. The access points breathe a sigh of relief, and the dynamic flows prove that the safety design we fought over this afternoon in the dining hall works. Although Helen would rather swallow a mooring line than admit my victory in spatial design.

I activate the frequency.

“Lara, cut the progression on the port side. Divert the group toward the bar.”

“Roger that.”

In a smooth turn, my gaze meets Helen’s. We’re only a few feet apart, but the connection is still there, surviving the years. A couple walks between us, breaking the line of sight. “Better that way. We’re on duty, and the last thing I need is to screw up in front of the entire security department.”

The official presentation begins. Lara commands the stage with ease, and the entertainment team spreads out, opening the central aisle as planned. The crowd relaxes, lets down its guard, and surrenders to the ship’s rhythm.

“Maika,” Iván’s voice comes over the radio with a hint of urgency. “We have a casualty in the central sector.”

“Medical emergency?” I ask, alarmed, pinpointing his location.

“Not exactly. A cruise passenger in a red sequined dress has taken Leo hostage on the dance floor.”

“Can this really be happening…”

I zoom in on the area and a laugh escapes me. There’s Leo, trapped by a tiny elderly woman who moves with surprising agility. The lady is spinning him around the dance floor while my host tries to keep his composure with an expression of utter bewilderment.

Lara bursts out laughing over the internal channel, and I cover my mouth with my hand.

“Take his place, Iván,” I order through clenched teeth. “We’re writing Leo off for this round. The rest of you, stay where you are.”

I glance toward the right flank and see that Helen has witnessed the scene. Her arms are crossed over her chest, and the corners of her lips are turned up slightly. A subtle smile, almost imperceptible, but enough to dismantle the rigor of the uniform. It’s a visual spectacle that should be classified as an occupational hazard. Because Helen Müller is the greatest danger the universe has ever created.

I close the distance and stand beside her before logic can stop me.

“Assessing the risks of a possible heart attack on the dance floor?” I ask in a low voice.

Helen regains her composure immediately, though the sparkle in her eyes betrays that she wasn’t quite quick enough.

“I’m just monitoring the crowd’s behavior, that’s all. Excessive enthusiasm usually ends in bruises and extra work for the infirmary.”

“Admit it, Müller—that lady has better footwork than your entire team.”

Her gaze returns to the dance floor, where Leo has just suffered a final blow.

“Right where it hurts…” Helen murmurs.

And I’m surprised—just a little—that she was able to joke about it.

We stand by the railing, sharing the space as the captain steps up to the podium for the ceremonial toast. The crowd slows to a crawl, cell phones are raised to capture the moment, and the deck quiets down for a few minutes. The children, however, continue their own game of tag, weaving around the service tables.

“Attention, ladies and gentlemen…” the captain begins, raising a hand to get everyone’s attention.

Some clap, others record videos. And Helen follows everyone with her gaze.

“Everything’s going perfectly,” I say, moving a little closer.