Chapter 9
They begged off dinner, making veiled references to celebrating their anniversary properly. Idris had the chef prepare an oyster dish and sent it to their room with a bottle of Veuve Clicquot.
They fed each other the oysters and champagne for the camera and then spent some time making noises under the comforter and trying not to laugh.
Marielle fell asleep in Omar’s arms, but next morning, she woke feeling oddly bereft in an empty bed. It took a moment to realize that she’d already grown accustomed to having Omar in the bed next to her.
Not a good development.
He was already dressed, sitting on a chair by the window and lacing up his running shoes.
“Morning,” she murmured, pushing herself up on one elbow.
He glanced over his shoulder, his expression unreadable. “Morning. I’m going to take a walk while you hit the gym.”
Right. The gym. She nodded, suddenly wide awake. “And then I’ll probably unwind in the sauna.”
“Sounds good. See you at breakfast?”
“It’s a plan.”
He stood, crossed to her side of the bed, and pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. For the cameras, she reminded herself. But his lips lingered a beat longer than necessary. “Be careful.”
“You too.”
After he left, she pulled on her workout clothes then made her way to the state-of-the art gym.
It had a full wall of mirrors and equipment that looked like it belonged in an elite training facility.
Mediterranean sunshine poured in through the skylight.
Poppy’s latest album played through hidden speakers.
Hanna was on the treadmill, running hard. Too hard. Her pace was punishing, her breathing ragged, and sweat soaked through her tank top.
Marielle climbed onto the adjacent machine and started at a light jog. “Good morning!”
Hanna jerked her head toward Marielle, startled. For a fraction of a second, something flickered across her face. Hope? Fear? Then it was gone, replaced by her careful smile.
She slowed to a walk. “Good morning, Margaux. I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I didn’t mean to interrupt your workout. You were really going hard there.”
“I like to stay active. It’s my routine. Wring it all out on the treadmill, then collapse in the sauna.” Her laugh was brittle. When she reached for her water bottle, her hands shook slightly.
“I’m the opposite. Oscar practically has to drag me to the gym.” Marielle kept her tone light, conversational. “Although after all the food on this yacht, I might need to make it a habit.”
“The chef is incredible,” Hanna agreed. But her eyes kept flicking upward.
Marielle followed her gaze and saw it. A small camera lens was tucked into the corner where the mirrored wall met the ceiling. She continued her scan of the room as casually as possible. Another camera near the entrance. A third positioned to capture the weights area.
Every angle covered.
“How long have you and Idris been together?” Marielle asked, trying again to start the conversation that had withered and died that first night.
“Not long.” Hanna’s answer was quick, practiced. She increased her walking speed slightly. “Just a few months.”
“It’s wonderful that you can travel together like this. Oscar and I feel so lucky to have met you all.”
“Yes. Wonderful.” Hanna’s voice was flat. She glanced at the camera again, then back at Marielle. “I should finish my workout. I don’t want to fall behind on my routine.”
“Of course! Maybe we could grab lunch later—Just us girls?”
“Maybe. I’ll have to check with Idris.”
The way she said it—like she needed permission—made Marielle’s stomach clench.
But she bumped up the speed on her treadmill and feigned interest in sweating on purpose while she counted down the minutes until Hanna finally finished running, wiped down her machine, and left for the sauna, giving Marielle a friendly wave as she walked out.
Marielle counted to twenty then turned off the blasted treadmill. She drank a tall tumbler of cold water and waited for her pulse to slow.
Surely that was long enough. She wiped down the torture machine and went off in search of the sauna.
She found it tucked into a corner of the spa level.
She opened the door and stepped into a small cedar-lined room with benches on three sides and stones that glowed red-hot in the corner.
Before she even greeted Hanna, who was sitting in the dry heat, she scanned the space.
Omar had been right: no cameras in here.
She relaxed her tense shoulder and turned her attention to Hanna.
For a moment they just looked at each other. Hanna’s eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, her face blotchy from crying.
Marielle wished she could give the woman her privacy, but it was now or never. She sat down on the bench.
Hanna stood and headed for the door. “I’m sorry—”
“Please stay.” Marielle’s voice was soft but urgent. “Please.”
Hanna hesitated, her hand on the door handle. Then something in her seemed to break. She let the door close and sank onto the bench across from Marielle, as far away as the small space allowed.
They sat in silence for a long moment. The only sound was the hiss of steam as Marielle ladled water over the hot stones.
“Want to talk about it?” Marielle finally asked.
Hanna let out a sound that might have been a laugh or might have been a sob. “Would it matter if I did?”
“It might.”
“To whom?” Hanna’s voice was bitter. “To you? To your husband? We’ll reach Marseille tonight. You get to go back to your beautiful life together.” She looked down at her hands, twisted together in her lap. “I don’t get to leave.”
Marielle’s heart clenched. She wanted to reach across the space between them, to offer comfort, but she forced herself to wait. Hanna was talking—really talking—for the first time. She remembered her behavioral psychology training at the Farm: it’s always better to let them come to you.
“How long have you been with Idris?” she asked carefully.
“Three months. Or maybe it’s been a lifetime. Sometimes I can’t remember what it was like before.” Hanna wiped at her eyes. “Our fathers arranged it. A business deal. I’m part of the collateral.”
“That’s not—”
“Legal? Ethical? No. But it’s how things work in our world.” Hanna’s laugh was hollow. “My father trades in information. Idris’s father trades in ... many things. They needed to solidify their partnership. What better way than a marriage?”
“You’re not married yet.”
“Not yet. But I will be. In two months, there’s a ceremony planned in Tunis.
I’ll smile and wear a beautiful gown and promise to love and honor him, and then I’ll spend the rest of my life being watched.
” She gestured vaguely upward, and Marielle knew she meant the cameras. “Always watched. Always controlled.”
The temperature in the sauna was climbing, sweat beading on Marielle’s skin. She ladled more water over the stones, buying herself a moment to think.
“What if you didn’t have to marry him?” she said quietly. “What if there was a way out?”
Hanna’s head snapped up, her eyes sharp despite the tears. “There isn’t.”
“But what if there was?”
For a long moment, Hanna just stared at her. Marielle could see her weighing something, deciding whether to trust or retreat.
Finally, Hanna spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “I always tried. I was betrayed.”
“By Idris?”
“No.” She shook her head. “By someone who was supposed to help me get out of this. They promised—” Her voice cracked. “They said they would extract me. That I just had to hold on, keep gathering information, and when the time came they would get me out.”
Marielle’s pulse quickened. “What kind of information?”
“About my father’s business. About his partnership with Idris’s father. Financial records, communications, evidence of—” She stopped, looking at Marielle closely. “Why do you want to know?”
This was it. The moment where Marielle either committed or backed away. She thought of Jake’s orders, of the mission parameters, of all the reasons she shouldn’t reveal anything.
Then she thought of Olivia, and of all the chances she hadn’t taken to help her friend.
She took a breath. “Do you have something for the person who was supposed to help you?”
Hanna went very still. “What did you say?”
“The information you were gathering. Do you still have it?”
“Who are you?” Hanna’s voice was sharp now, all the tears gone. “You’re not Canadian tourists, are you? Did my father send you?”
“No. Not your father.”
“Then who—”
Before Marielle could answer, the door swung open with a blast of cooler air.
Poppy stumbled in, smelling of booze. She dropped her towel on the bench without inhibition, plunked her naked body down beside it, and let out a loud sigh.
“Oh my God, you guys have the right idea. I am so stressed out.” She stretched her arms over her head, oblivious to or uncaring about Marielle and Hanna’s frozen postures.
“Brad’s been in the worst mood since last night.
He and Idris got into it about some business thing.
Something about shipping routes? I don’t know, I wasn’t really listening. ”
She ladled water over the stones with abandon, sending up a huge cloud of steam.
“There’s some deal that’s supposed to happen somewhere, but now Brad’s saying it’s not gonna work …” She waved her hand dismissively. “It’s all very boring and very stressful and I told Brad, I said, ‘babe, this is supposed to be a vacation,’ but he’s all wound up about money and his dad and—”
She finally seemed to notice their silence.
“Wait, am I interrupting something?” She looked between them, her eyes unfocused. “Girl talk?”
“No, it’s fine,” Marielle managed.
“Good, because I am dying to ask you”—Poppy pointed at Marielle—“where did you get that white halter dress you wore yesterday? It was gorgeous, and it’ll totally show off my tan.”
Marielle answered on autopilot, her mind racing. Shipping routes. Customs. The Vice President’s son involved.
Poppy kept talking, her words tumbling over each other as she rambled about fashion and parties and some producer who wanted her for a movie. Marielle made appropriately interested noises while watching Hanna out of the corner of her eye.
Hanna had closed down completely, her face a careful mask. She stood after a few minutes, mumbling something about needing to shower.
“Wait—” Marielle started.
But Hanna was already gone, the door swinging shut behind her.
“Is she okay?” Poppy asked, finally noticing. “She seemed upset.”
“I think she’s just tired,” Marielle said.
“Yeah, Idris works her pretty hard.” Poppy giggled at her own innuendo. “I mean, he’s super intense about everything. Like, control freak intense. Brad says he gets it from his dad. Apparently the whole family is like that.”
Marielle wanted to follow Hanna, to finish their conversation, but Poppy was still talking.
“—and I told Brad, I said, ‘if you’re gonna be partners with these people, at least make sure the yacht comes with the deal, because this thing is amazing—‘”
“Wait.” Marielle cut her off. “It’s more than one deal. Brad and Idris are going to be business partners?”
“Mmm, not exactly.” Poppy leaned forward conspiratorially, even though they were alone.
“Apparently there’s this whole thing with shell companies and, like, moving money around?
I don’t really get it. Maybe Brad’s dad wants to invest in something, and Idris’s dad has the connections, and Hanna’s dad is, like, the banker or whatever? It’s very complicated and very boring.”
“The Vice President?”
Something in Marielle’s voice must have cut through Poppy’s drunken haze and tipped her off that she was saying more than she should.
She stood up abruptly, swaying slightly.
“Okay, I’m done. Too hot. I need a cold shower and another drink. You coming?”
“In a minute.”
Poppy grabbed her towel and stumbled back out, leaving Marielle alone in the sweltering heat.
She sat there for another few minutes, her mind working through what she’d learned. Hanna had information—was supposed to give it to someone who never came for her. Shipping routes, customs issues, the Vice President’s possible involvement. Shell companies and money laundering.
And Hanna could connect all the dots. If she could convince the frightened woman to trust her.