Fletcher meets my gaze in the rearview mirror. “I’ll be on standby, regardless of the hour.”
The woman opens my door, offering a practiced smile. “Ms. Cross, your father is waiting for you.”
I hold tight to my phone and step out, the salty breeze kissing my skin as I attempt to make sense of the location.
My father’s not exactly a stranger to extravagant purchases—especially during moments of emotional unrest.
When a major client lost an acquisition he’d spent months preparing for—burning through spreadsheets and obsessing over forecasts—my father imported a six-figure Persian rug from Istanbul to “remind him what ambition should feel like underfoot.” When I got accepted into Yale he purchased a grand piano no one in the family could play and installed it in the atrium “for the acoustics of success.”
And after my mother died, he bought a minimalist loft in SoHo. All glass, steel, and silence. A place he could go to be with his thoughts.
He lasted two weeks before stating his grief clashed with the decor.
So, sure, a lavish maritime purchase isn’t all that unexpected post life-threatening heart attack. Although I do wonder if my accompanying business decisions may have pushed my father too far.
The woman—Elena, according to the pin on her lapel—leads me along the pier, the water lapping gently as the yachts grow increasingly obscene in size and design the farther we walk.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“TheRequiem, ma’am.”
I smother an eye roll. The name tells me absolutely nothing as we approach the end of the dock. “And what is that, exactly?”
She continues a few steps ahead, then stops and gestures to a narrow gangway connecting the pier to the largest vessel in the marina. Multi-level decks tower above me, their edges traced with ambient lighting. Chrome railings gleam. Dark-tinted windows stretch long across each level, concealing everything within. Then there’s the hull, black and sleek withRequiemetched in gold script along the side.
I have to concentrate to keep from gaping. “My father boughtthisboat?”
“It’s a super yacht, ma’am. But, no,Requiemisn’t for sale.” Elena takes another step toward the floating palace and indicates the wicker basket beside the gangway. “If you wouldn’t mind removing your heels before boarding.” She toes off her black ballet flats and places them inside the basket next to my father’s leather loafers.
The engine growls beneath us, a deep, low grumble that vibrates faintly into the pier beneath my feet, while deckhands stand stationed like statues on every level, each of them watching me expectantly as if I’m holding the starter gun to an important race.
“Right…” I frown, not at Elena’s request, but at the surreal detour this night has taken, and toe off my Louboutins before placing them in the basket.
“This way.” She crosses the gangway without a backward glance.
I follow, the night breeze tugging at my blouse and threading cool fingers through my loose hair.
Elena leads me across the main deck, the teak smooth beneath my bare feet, the scent of varnish and sea salt heavy in the air. We pass a perfectly staged outdoor sitting area with white sectional sofas, matching throws folded withmilitary precision, and a glass fire strip embedded in a smooth stone table, the small dancing flames ornamental rather than functional.
It’s all exceptionally beautiful. Expensive. Utterly indulgent.
Then we reach the automatic glass doors. They glide open without a sound, revealing the interior. Pale oak floors. Cream leather seating. A marble counter that stretches the length of the room, lined with stools and backed by glass shelves glittering with top-shelf liquor.
Everything is white and cream. Furniture. Decorations. Artwork. The only contrast comes from Elena’s navy uniform, mirrored on another woman stationed behind the bar, her dark hair twisted into a perfect coil. Prim smile. Polite demeanor.
“Would you like a drink before I deliver you to the study?” Elena offers.
I hesitate.
Something isn’t right.
My dad would’ve told me we were going on a boat trip. Right?
He would’ve been here to greet me… even when livid with parental disapproval.
I need to stay sharp, present, alert.
Then again, a drink might soften the edge of this unsettling paranoia.