They scatter. Some climb back into the RIB and take off toward the winch. The others scurry through the internal door.
It isn’t until we’re alone that reality has time to fully marinate.
I could’ve lost her.
Not just to circumstance or fucked-up parentage—but for good.
I wrap my arms around her. Hold her closer despite her whimper of protest.
“Give me this, Isla,” I murmur into her hair. “Just for a minute.”
There’s no response. Nothing but the continued shudder of her body and the limpness of her limbs. Then slowly, finally, she melts, resting her head on my shoulder, her wet hair splayed across my drenched shirt.
“You’re safe,” I murmur against her temple. “It’s over.”
Is it though?
We’re still locked in a war we can’t escape.
Minutes pass and all I do is hold her, caught in a punishing replay of her fall. The wild panic in her eyes. The stunned screams from stewardesses.
She almost fucking died.
“Tell me you’re okay,” I demand, because relinquishing control, even now, feels like weakness I can’t afford.
She nods.
It’s not good enough. There’s no fucking relief.
“Look at me.” I pull back, gently guiding the wet hair from her face. “I need to hear you say it.”
“Why?” Her gaze remains downcast. “So you can stop worrying about this getting back to the authorities?”
I deserve that. And then some.
But navigating this situation is, and always has been, a fucking minefield.
I can’t do what I want to do. Can’t tell her what she wants to hear.
Slowly, her chin raises and those glassy, devastated eyes meet mine. She’s pale. Wrecked. A ghost of the woman who boarded the yacht yesterday.
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” she rasps. “I lost balance when he grabbed my leg. I was never going to jump.”
“I know.”
God help me, I do.
“I feel so fucking stupid.” Her lips tremble. “I never would’ve climbed the railing if you’d…” She winces. Pauses. “I just wanted to know the truth.”
Sharp pain stabs between my ribs, past skin and flesh and bone.
I ignore it.
I have to.
She’s not to blame.
My father is. Hers too.