Chapter 1
## Aine POV
“Please, wait!” I shouted, waving my hand desperately, even though I knew it was pointless.
The ship, a huge, white mountain of steel that was supposed to be my ticket to four weeks of paradise, was just pulling away from the pier with a long, mocking blast of its horn. I watched as the distance between the pier and the deck grew at an alarming rate, and with it, my chance at the peace I’d been longing for melted away.
I growled under my breath, feeling a wave of irritation. You brought this on yourself, workaholic, whispered the mischievous part of my nature somewhere in my head. It was true. As a writer, I never had set working hours—my “office routine” was limited to a laptop in bed and a mug of coffee that usually went cold before I could take my first sip.
But this week was different. The final chapter of my latest children’s book had taken such a hold of my thoughts that I’d lost track of time. When I finally typed the last word, and my editor sent me an email with an enthusiastic “This is going to be a hit!”, I was so exhausted that I fell into a sort of trance.
I decided then that it was time to take a break from writing. That meant a “real vacation”—not just a half-day here and there—and completely stopping myself from analyzing the plot. And then, on the way to the harbor, the first sketches of a new story began to take shape in my head. Because of that, I didn’t notice how time was slipping away inexorably.
I loved writing, but I also found time for a healthy lifestyle, though I had to learn how to do that, too. I set my alarm for a specific time every day to get off my ass. Maybe I didn’t run through parks like all those fitness fanatics in their perfectly coordinated jogging outfits—which, to be honest, amused me—but my brisk walks along the coast gave me just the right amount of exercise. My figure, though slender, was the result of hours spent on my feet, not at the gym. Even my late-night writing marathons left no mark on my figure, because my personal guardian was the habit of brushing my teeth right after dinner—after the toothpaste, even the most delicious cookies tasted like cardboard.
Now, however, watching the ferry recede into the distance, I felt like a complete amateur. Four weeks of vacation—one week on the ship, three in a rented cottage on the island—were just falling apart, all because I’d suddenly had a flash of inspiration, jotted it down quickly on my phone, and missed… two buses, then the taxi got stuck in traffic, and I was late.
I stepped back from the edge of the pier, adjusting the straps of my backpack. I was wealthy enough not to have to worry about the cost, but not reckless enough to waste money on silly mistakes.
I went back to the ticket counters—maybe there would be some good news there? An elderly woman with a kind look was sitting at the counter. Seeing my resigned expression, she opened the window slightly.
“Sweetheart, the next cruise isn’t for another week,” she sighed, looking at me intently.
So much for my vacation. Of course, I could buy that next ticket, but I knew that if I went home now, I’d definitely write down what I’d jotted down on my phone, and it wouldn’t end up on paper. I’d start writing another paragraph, then a chapter, and before I knew it, my whole vacation would be over. I sat down on a bench in the waiting area, feeling completely defeated.
That’s when I heard the woman at the window go “psst” and wave at me. I walked over again. She looked around conspiratorially, as if she were about to reveal the port’s greatest secret, and whispered:
“There’s one more ship. It’s leaving in an hour. It’s not for tourists, it’s an exclusive voyage for the high-born. But…” she hesitated, lowering her voice, “maybe if you talk to the captain, you’ll be able to sweet-talk him? He’s a tough guy, but sometimes even a fox can be gracious if you know where to scratch… or, you know, make a move.”
I didn’t know what she meant by “fox.” I suspected that “scratch” referred to payment, but how much could such a favor cost? Anyway, at that moment, desperation was stronger than common sense.
“Where can I find him?” I asked, sitting up straight.
She pointed to a distant, almost hidden pier where a vessel was moored—one much smaller, yet far more majestic and menacing in its black finish than all the cruise ships put together.
“It’s over there,” she said, and something flashed in her eyes that I couldn’t quite interpret.
I headed in that direction, feeling my heart begin to beat faster. Not because of the run, but because of the unknown that awaited me at the end of the pier.
The further I walked along the waterfront toward the black yacht, the more I felt that the atmosphere around this vessel was different. While the main harbor bustled with chaotic activity, here there was an almost sterile sense of discipline. The sailors moved with a precision I hadn’t seen in ordinary dockworkers; there was something predatory about them, hidden beneath a mask of professionalism. Though I have to admit, they also stood out in appearance—they were like models, each one more handsome than the last. I wondered where they’d found so many hotties!
Finally, I looked away from them and headed toward those standing by the metal footbridge, supervising the supply operations. As soon as they noticed me, one of them swept his gaze over me so brazenly that I felt as if he were physically touching me. His gaze was cold, and when he licked his lips, I had the impression that his tongue wasn’t human—it was definitely too long and seemed to be split at the tip. I took a step back, feeling repulsed.
Still, I spoke up in a friendly tone, addressing the older of the two:
“Good morning, is there perhaps a vacant cabin for me? Could I speak with the captain?”
“There’s no room, girl. Don’t bother the captain,” grumbled the other, older man, though his voice sounded more like a warning than hostility.
Before I could answer, the yacht’s doors slid open and a man with a magnetic smile stepped onto the deck.
“My gods, I owe you one!” he exclaimed, never taking his eyes off me.
In an instant, I felt that this place wasn’t for me. The instinct that usually warned me against bad ideas in my books was now screaming at the top of its lungs.
