My purpose here was so direct. Nico Varela is the enemy, the man responsible for my father’s ruin. I am the avenger, prepared to do whatever is necessary to bring him down. The lines were clear.
Now, those lines are blurring, shifting like sand.
If he is capable of compassion, then he is human. Flawed, dangerous, morally bankrupt, but human. And if he is human, he can be reached. Influenced. Perhaps even altered.
The idea plants a seed of dangerous, foolish optimism.
I rise carefully and move to the window, watching lightning dance across the sky, illuminating the churning water below. The wind strengthens, driving waves against the hull with increasing force.
My mind races. If Nico isn’t beyond redemption, my strategy must change. It would demand more than seduction and manipulation. It would demand a genuine connection.
The idea is both terrifying and freeing. Terrifying because it means exposing myself in ways beyond the physical. Freeing because it presents a path forward that doesn’t require me to become as cold as he is.
But what of my father? My quest for justice cannot be set aside. It’s the foundation of my identity. Yet now it’s snarled with this new understanding, this possibility that Nico might possess a conscience. That he might even have some feelings for me.
The door opens behind me without warning. I grow rigid but don’t turn, not ready for him to see the confusion in my eyes. His reflection appears in the glass beside mine, his expression hidden by the dim light.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks. The silence stretches, filled only by the building storm.
“You should dress,” he says finally, his voice carefully neutral. “The storm’s getting worse. We need to return to shore.”
I nod, still not turning. “I need a minute.”
He pauses, then moves to the closet. He retrieves not the dress I wore earlier, but comfortable pants and a loose sweater, and places them on the bed. A bafflingly considerate gesture.
“There are painkillers in the medicine cabinet,” he adds, the words oddly formal. “Take two before we leave.”
I finally turn to face him. He stands just inside the doorway, unwilling to come fully into the room. His posture is stiff, but I see something different in his eyes. Something I can’t name.
“Why did you stop?” The question is a compulsion, escaping before I can check it.
His expression hardens, a muscle jumping in his jaw. He lets out a slow breath, his gaze shifting away.
“Get dressed, Lea. We’ll discuss this later.”
He turns to go. I can’t let it be.
“No,” I say, my voice stronger than I expect. “Answer me. Why did you stop when I cried? That’s not who you are.”
He freezes, his hand on the doorknob. His voice is low, almost lost in the storm’s rising fury.
“Perhaps you don’t know who I am as well as you think.”
Then he leaves. The door clicks shut, a period on a sentence I couldn’t yet read, leaving me alone in the center of the room, clutching the robe like armor.
I move to the bed and pick up the clothes. As I dress, wincing as material slides over sensitive skin, my mind races.Perhaps you don’t know who I am as well as you think.It’s an admission that the monster I pictured is an incomplete version of the man.
I swallow the painkillers with a gulp of water. My face looks less wrecked now, even if the crying’s left its mark—puffy eyes, red nose. Whatever. I pull my damp hair into a messy ponytail. At least I look like I can function. Like I’ve got my shit together.
Even if that’s a total lie.
When I step out, the yacht’s already moving, slicing through the rough waves back toward the marina. Nico’s up at the helm with the captain, his back super straight, shoulders tense like he’s carrying the world. He doesn’t turn around, but I know he senses me—he always does. I curl up on the couch, hugging my knees to my chest, ignoring the sting on my skin.
Lightning cracks the sky open, and thunder booms so loud it shakes everything. The storm’s right on top of us now. Rain’s pounding the windows like it’s trying to break in. I watch Nico and the captain talking, their voices drowned out by the chaos outside. Whatever it is, it doesn’t look good. Nico’s face gets even more intense.
Finally, he turns and locks eyes with me. He’s got that frustrated look, but it’s all bottled up, controlled.
“Change of plans,” he says, walking over to the salon. “Marina’s shut down the entrance because of the storm surge. We’ll anchor in the bay until it blows over.”
