Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
ISLA
I move through the salon on autopilot, still tipsy, yet somehow now hollow.
It’s that horrible tipping point where I’m not drunk enough to be brave and not sober enough to be sharp.
I hadn’t even finished the wine. Half of it ended up nourishing a potted palm in the dining room.
The empty bottle was just a prop to sell the illusion of being too drunk to provide a professional statement.
But the few glasses I’d consumed to drown my sorrows, plus the Dalmore, have my brain pulsing with a cracking headache.
The worst part?
I’m starting to believe Raffael’s outrageous threats.
They were easier to ignore when I was busy trying to match pitch with his audacity. When we were both firing hot, battling for the upper hand.
But now?
The dangerously cold sterility he’s started inflicting upon me has my stomach tied in knots of dread.
He doesn’t even look like the man who left the dining room in his pristine business suit hours ago. I woke up to find his shirt halfway buttoned, the wrinkled fabric tugging across his chest and hanging open enough to show a strip of bare skin and the faint line of muscle.
His pants are still sharp, but the contrast only makes him look more dangerous. Like a man pulled straight from bed into a battlefield. Barefoot. Unpolished. Yet somehow incredibly lethal.
Would my father really leave me here if this were the type of situation where someone could go missing?
I get it—he owes money. A lot of it. But if my compliance were the only thing keeping me safe, would Dad really leave me to fend for myself?
“Out onto the deck.” Raffael follows in my shadow, one silent pace behind. “The stairs are on the left.”
I pass the automatic glass doors, the night air sinking under the thin sleeves of my blouse as we step outside. The teak is cool beneath my feet, the low grumble of an approaching boat growing louder with our descent down the stairs.
A man shouts orders. “Secure the line… Pull tighter.”
Then the engine cuts off.
Silence carries for half a beat. Then the softer sounds flood in, the wet slap of water, the creak of ropes under strain, the shuffle of scurrying footfalls.
I pause on the bottom step, tucked out of view, the outdoor stairs having somehow led me back inside the lower level and into another sleek room.
Pristine lounge chairs stretch across pale wooden flooring.
There’s a wall of rolled towels and neatly hung life jackets.
It feels more like a high-end wellness retreat than the stage for a one-woman act of pure survival.
“Where is she?” Quinn’s demand splits through the night. “Bring her here. Otherwise I’ll go find her myself.”
A pained smile tugs at my lips. There’s so much relief at the sound of her voice. But it’s quickly chased by trepidation.
She will go missing.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry,” a man replies. “But I’ve told you I don’t have authorization to let you board.”
“Then get it. Or get Isla. Otherwise I’ll call… what the fuck? What happened to my cell service?”
I drag in a deep breath, straighten my spine, and put my game face on.
I’m about to enter the room to give the performance of my life when Raffael’s hand finds my arm again. Softer this time. A gentle warning instead of an ominous threat.
“You can’t fuck this up,” he murmurs near my ear. “You might not believe me, but the last thing I want is you getting hurt.”
The kindness is an unwanted reminder of the man I thought I knew. Now it only serves to cement his deceit.
I glance over my shoulder, meeting his gaze as he towers over me from the step above. “Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you started bartering with my freedom behind my back.”
I shuck his hold and step into a room that opens up before me, its side wall folded down to create a platform that extends out over the dark water like a private dock.
A sleek tender floats alongside it, a crewman securing a rope between the two vessels, while another man remains on the smaller boat, his eyes locked on Quinn as she stands in front of him, frowning at her phone.
“Why the hell can I no longer get a signal?” she grumbles.
I approach. The crew member on the tender sees me first, his face lighting with the kind of unguarded relief people usually reserve for miracles. “Ma’am.”
Quinn glares at him. “If you ma’am me one more time you’re going to lose an appendage.” She pauses, tracking his attention to me. “Isla?”
I smile despite myself. “Quinn.”
She scrambles to the side of the boat. “Are you okay?”
I continue forward, panic teasing the back of my neck as I step onto the floating platform.
I knew it wouldn’t be hard for Raffael to trigger a flare when he texted her. This woman has intuition that borders on clairvoyance—not that it would’ve been hard with Raffael’s phrasing.
It was what I’d banked on. What I’d planned for.
But that was before the threats gained a lethal edge.
“I was fine… until I heard you were on your way.” I force a thin smile. “Now I feel crappy.”
She studies me, sharp as ever, then fires a look at the guy still on the tender. “Can I at least step onto the platform?”
“No, ma’—”
She cuts him off with a glare.
“Miss,” he corrects. “I’m afraid I can’t allow it.”
“Is it possible to get a moment of privacy?” I eye the guy on board, then the one still securing the tender to the yacht with rope.
They exchange a quick look.
“Sure,” says the guy next to Quinn. “But she can’t come aboard.”
I nod. “Understood.”
He climbs from the boat and jumps onto the platform. “The name’s Mitch. We’ll be in the tender garage just behind that wall.” He gestures to the far side of the room. “Call out when you’re done.”
I give a tight smile in thanks and watch them leave through a movable partition. It isn’t entire privacy though—not given the threat lurking on the stairs—but it’s enough.
“The rules around here are stricter than airport security,” Quinn mutters. “It’s not like I’m capable of hijacking the damn thing.”
“Tell me about it. I had to put my Louboutins in a basket because no shoes are allowed onboard.”
She rolls her eyes. “The one-percenters have a lot to answer for.”
I release a dry laugh. “You’re telling me.”
She lets me ride out the fake humor for a beat before lifting a tote stretched to the brim from somewhere at her side, along with a garment bag. “I brought your things.”
I inch closer and lean toward her, grabbing the offerings. “Thanks.” I glance inside the tote, buying a few seconds of silence to maintain my equilibrium. There are pajamas, cotton panties, face wash, a toothbrush, and a few basic items of makeup.
“Want to tell me what the hell is going on?” she asks.
I sigh. Shrug.
I don’t want to lie to her. For starters, she’d call bullshit before I even opened my mouth. But it’s not like I can tell her the truth. “I needed a time-out.”
She scrunches her nose. “Unprompted? On a yacht?”
I cringe. “It’s safe to say my new role and Dad’s health scare have me acting out of character.”
She doesn’t look like she’s buying it, but she doesn’t say anything.
“I’m okay, Quinn. I’m sorry that you felt the need to come all the way out here.”
“How could I not?” She levels me with an exaggerated look of incredulity. “First of all, you never ask for help, let alone for something so random. Then I deliberately baited you by saying something as verbally criminal as ‘corporate slay’ and you didn’t call me on it.”
I chuckle, but the humor doesn’t stick. “I had a stomach full of wine by that stage.”
“I always assumed you could be tripping on mushrooms while hooked up to a tequila IV and still not let that verbiage slip from my vocabulary without you issuing a formal cease and desist. I thought you were sounding a silent alarm.”
“No,” I say quietly. “Just battling exhaustion while drunk.”
“And you’re sober now?”
“God, no. But I’m on the fast track to a hangover. I fell asleep waiting for my bag to arrive, and now my brain feels like it’s being cleaved in two.”
Her face pinches. I can’t tell if it’s empathy or that unnerving sixth sense tuning in. Her pattern recognition and emotional acuity make her a human lie detector.
“I’m sorry for worrying you.” I juggle the garment bag and tote in my hands. “Everything’s just… new. And clearly, I’m not acclimating well. Being out here is the first step in fixing things.”
She nods absentmindedly and averts her gaze, absorbing the Requiem’s monstrous size casually. “Whose yacht?”
I stiffen, the question too direct for me not to panic.
I try to think. To scramble. But her gaze returns to mine.
Fuck.
I let out a slow, measured breath. “It’s Raffael Cavallo’s.”
Her face collapses. “Why the hell would you—”
“It’s complicated,” I cut in. “And I don’t want to get into it while alcohol is still fogging my frontal lobe. But the crux of the situation is that my power play was shortsighted—”
“Is Raffael here?” she demands.
I don’t answer.
Her jaw slackens. “Isla—”
“It’s fine.” I implore her with a look. “Dad is furious with me. And Raffael is being… gracious in allowing me to stay on board while we figure out a way to clean up my mess.”
Okay, so that’s a fucking lie. A big one.
But I think I nailed it.
“Please tell me you’re not getting dreamy-eyed about him again,” she accuses.
I cringe. It’s even worse that the asshole is listening. “No, definitely not.” I grit my teeth and force out the next part. “But I do need to make amends. There’s a history between our families that runs deeper than I knew—”
“Your actions weren’t unjustified.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Her eyes widen. “Cavallo’s increased ruthlessness in the industry being tied to CrossPoint no longer matters?”
Nausea eats away at my stomach. “Like I said, it’s complicated. It’s a family matter. And a management issue. You wouldn’t understand.”
It’s a low blow. One that sends her brows skyward.
Despite having been her superior since she was employed years ago, I’ve never had to pull the management card. Not once. Not ever.
I’ve always considered her my equal. If anything, the brilliance of her mind outshines mine in every aspect. Treating her like this is nauseating, but for her safety, I have to double down. “As a friend, I adore you for caring so much… but as your boss, I’m going to need you to drop it.”
She flinches. Her mouth opens, then closes.
I feel fucking horrible, because I know damn well her mental superpowers come with kryptonite—rejection sensitivity.
“Again, I’m really sorry for worrying you.” I raise the bags. “And I appreciate you getting my things. But I need you to let me navigate this on my own. Okay? I have it under control.”
She nods. Once. Twice. Then keeps going like it’s the only thing tethering her to rationality.
It kills me.
“I guess I’ll get going then.” Her gaze drifts to the upper deck. “Will you be in the office tomorrow?”
I backtrack, trying to place distance between me and the awful feeling churning my insides. “I’m not sure.”
She maintains the nodding. “Right… Well… good night then…”
I wince.
There’s so much more I want to say. To confess. But I can’t.
She will go missing.
“Good night, Quinn.”
“Night.” She forces a dim smile, then turns her attention over my shoulder and calls out, “Mitch.”
The two men reappear almost instantly, stepping out from behind the panel like they’d been posted just out of view.
“Despite the generous welcome party,” Quinn announces, “I’m ready to leave.”
Mitch gives a polite incline of his head and boards the tender, while his counterpart unhooks the thick ropes from the yacht’s metal anchors and tosses them across. Mitch catches each one and stows them out of sight.
“You got everything?” He settles into position at the controls.
“Yeah.” Quinn’s gaze darts one last time in my direction.
“Alright then.” He starts the engine, the grumbling gurgle eating up the quiet.
In seconds, the tender is pulling away, slicing into the dark water, taking Quinn back to what I hope is safety.
“It’s time to call it a night.” Raffael’s voice sends an unwanted shiver down my spine.
I turn, finding him waiting at the bottom of the staircase, his broad frame taking up the entire entry, his shoulder propped casually against the wall, arms folded, feet bare, business shirt hanging half open over his slacks.
He looks like sin and war all at once.
I ignore the gentle burn that starts in my eyes and travels to my nose, and approach him with the level of disdain he demands.
He doesn’t budge.
“Move,” I warn.
His jaw ticks.
God, I want to break it.
“You’ll sleep in my cabin tonight,” he growls.
Nausea hits me like a two-by-four to the gut. “Excuse me?”
“It seems the only way I can ensure you don’t cause more damage.”
“You’re the one who triggered her suspicion.” I attempt to get around him, hip and shouldering my way past.
His arm shoots out, blocking my path. “You’re the one who sabotaged the quickest path to resolution by getting drunk.” He closes me in against the wall, his abdomen pressing into my hip. “My cabin, Isla. Now.”
I stare straight ahead at the stairs, my heart lodging in my throat.
He can’t be serious.
“And if I don’t?” I whisper, hating how my body warms to his proximity.
Despising the delicious scent of him—all pine and woodsy—that infiltrates my lungs like a chemical weapon set to seduce.
Hating, with every sense of my being, that my insides still tingle with the belief he’s the man I once thought he was despite the mass of contradictory evidence.
His chuckle is barely audible. “Things have changed. And this isn’t a boardroom. Your days of denying me are over.”