Chapter 18
Chapter
Eighteen
ISLA
I sink against the window, sliding until my ass hits the carpet, my robe gaping wide enough for the temperature-controlled draft to prickle over my skin.
In the bathroom, Raffael runs water, loud and unrelenting.
I picture him at the basin, scrubbing me from his hands, his mouth, his memory. Erasing the evidence of what just happened with the same ruthless efficiency he once used to erase our friendship.
Yet this is exactly what I asked for—proof he could walk away.
I cinch the robe tight until the belt digs into my waist, feeling more naked than a newborn.
The water stops.
Deafening silence follows.
I brace for the thud of his retreating footsteps. For the confirmation I mean nothing to him.
Instead, the padding of his feet draws near.
He pauses in the doorway, his silhouette cutting into my periphery.
I keep my gaze fixed on my ankles, well aware I’m the picture of defeat, my determination laying waste on the plush carpet.
He approaches and I drop my head lower, as if that could hide my humiliation.
“Isla.” He stops a foot in front of me.
I can’t bring myself to look up. Not when I’m the wreckage of my own doing.
“Isla.” This time the syllables scrape, frayed at the edges.
I drag in a strengthening breath and raise my chin.
His eyes are dark, almost unreadable, except for the guilt-ridden glint that punches straight through me.
“Here.” He extends something toward me. “I got you this.”
My throat tightens as a damp washcloth hangs between us, slowly dripping on the floor.
A peace offering?
The possibility wedges itself between the burn of shame and the fragile flicker of relief, choking me until I can barely swallow.
I take the cloth, unsure how to clean myself in front of him without increasing my humiliation. But before I can lower my hand, his fingers wrap around my wrist and he tugs me to my feet.
I tense as he lifts me into his arms. No warning. No chance to protest.
He carries me into my bathroom, sets me down in front of the shower, then reaches around me to turn on the spray.
I clutch my robe lapels in one hand, the damp cloth in the other, while he remains behind me, his heat seeping into my back.
“Take your time,” he finally says. “We’ll talk once you’re done.”
Talk?
The opportunity sparks hope in my chest, a faint ember in the wreckage.
I turn toward him, chasing the curiosity of what that conversation might mean, but he’s already walking out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
What’s left isn’t silence. It’s absence. A vacuum that strips the space bare and proves the truth I loathe to admit—I still crave more than I’ll ever get from him.
I force myself to step into the shower. To scrub away the smell of him. The evidence of a choice I should regret but can’t.
I bathe slowly, then reclaim the robe, dry my hair, and fix my makeup, all while clawing back fragments of control in increments so small they barely register.
When I re-enter the main room, exhaustion and nerves weigh heavy, only to find Raffael by the windows, speaking in low tones with Elena.
She turns at my arrival, a flash of pity crossing her face before it smooths into an apologetic smile.
“How are you feeling?” she asks, approaching.
“Stupid,” I answer honestly. “But now that the bar’s on the floor regarding my decision-making, it can only go up from here, right?”
Raffael shifts to face the horizon while Elena’s expression turns pained.
This woman has seen me at my worst. First in the aftermath of my meltdown in the study. Then the brainless belly flop off the side of a moving yacht.
“I’m just glad you’re okay.” She brushes past me and into the bathroom.
I stare after her, confused as to what she’s doing.
“I’ve asked her to launder your clothes,” Raffael says without turning from the glass.
Elena returns with my soaked suit and yesterday’s outfit piled in her arms. “I’ll have these taken care of right away.”
I shift uncomfortably. “Thanks…”
She leaves, and the air in the room becomes heavier without her buffer. The click of the door lingers in the quiet, followed by nothing but the soft hum of the yacht. We’re moving again.
Raffael remains at the windows, posture straight, hands in pockets, gaze fixed on the endless blue. He doesn’t move, yet I feel his awareness stretch toward me, sharp and assessing even with his back turned. “I’ve arranged for a doctor to come check on you.”
“That isn’t necessary.”
Sure, I could use the opportunity as a lifeline, but I’m past looking for external avenues to get out of this.
“If not for the near drowning, then for peace of mind,” he says, his voice measured. “I don’t have unprotected sex, but I also don’t expect you to take my word for it. I’ll get tested once the doctor arrives.”
The cruelty he’s kept in his tone for years is no longer there. Now it’s clinical detachment. And somehow the precision cuts just as deep.
I cross to the bed and lower myself onto the corner, the robe clutched at my chest, as if my tight grip could block out the heated memories still circling like vultures.
“I’ve got a birth control implant,” I murmur in a pathetic attempt to return the peace of mind.
“I know.”
My center of gravity tilts. “You know?”
“Certain allowances are made for a blood debt. Access to medical records is one of them.”
Bile creeps up my throat.
This isn’t the impulse arrangement I’d thought it was. It has structure. Contingencies. Scope.
“I wasn’t involved, Isla,” he says to the glass.
I could interpret his admission in a million ways, however, it’s only hope that takes root beneath my ribs. I hold my breath, afraid the smallest shift will stop him from proceeding.
“The arrangement between our fathers had gone on for years without me or my brothers knowing.”
I try to picture it. To mold his confession into something believable, but it doesn’t fit. “How is that possible? What about the preferential treatment?”
His jaw ticks. “I mistakenly thought it was goodwill—professional respect, maybe even friendship. The kind of trust you earn after decades in business together.” Disdain enters his voice. “I didn’t realize every piece of insider information had been bought and paid for.”
He was a victim, too?
Obviously not anywhere near your-life-is-now-leverage-in-a-blood-debt capacity. But still caught up in the fallout all the same.
I hug my arms around my middle. “When did you find out?”
“A few months before Giancarlo passed.”
“Did he tell you himself? Was he apologetic? Did he justify his actions?” The questions tumble from me, one after another, the list compiling quicker than I can get them out. “What did he plan to do with me if the agreement—”
“The details don’t matter.”
I bristle. “They matter to me.”
“Let me rephrase.” Finally, he turns to meet my eyes, face drawn, stern. “Not all details can be discussed.”
I bite down on the urge to push harder.
“I’ll tell you everything I can, Isla, but some secrets are better left unsaid for the safety of all involved.”
I nod, though my stomach knots hard. “Why didn’t you say something years ago?”
He studies me in silence, gaze steady, calculating, as if weighing how much the truth will cost him. “It wasn’t my place.”
“But we were friends.” No, that word feels too small. “We were…”
“We were,” he reiterates, sparing me from conjuring the right description to explain our relationship. “But it was better for you to hate me than to hate your father. I couldn’t tell you the truth, and I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t keeping secrets. Distance was the only option.”
And there it is—the confirmation of what I suspected.
He suffocated whatever had been building between us. All to protect me… and my dad.
“I was right.” I lower my gaze to my hands clenched in my lap. “All of this was an act.”
“No.” The denial cuts clean.
My eyes snap back to his.
“The man you knew was me. But the ruthlessness? The cruelty?” His jaw hardens as a shadow passes through his expression. “That’s part of me too, Isla. It’s in my blood—”
A knock sounds at the door, our momentum collapsing under its weight.
Raffael exhales slowly, the sound heavy with an unspoken curse. “Come in.”
A stewardess enters, hair slicked into a ponytail. “The food you requested, sir.”
Raffael inclines his head. “Place it on the bed.”
She sets down a wooden charcuterie board beside me, the usual cheeses, meats, jams, and crackers flanked by an assortment of my favorite snacks—Peanut M&M’s, salted caramel popcorn, chocolate chip cookie bites, and what looks to be wasabi-dusted pistachios.
“Enjoy,” she says before leaving.
“You should get some rest.” Raffael follows after her. “Elena will bring your clothes when they’re ready.”
I want to protest. To beg him to stay. But my track record for steering this ship has been abysmal.
Still, the closer he gets to the door, the more the need claws at my throat. “Raffael?”
He pauses in the doorway, his broad frame eating up the space.
“The food…?” I ask. “You planned all the meals to be my favorites, didn’t you?”
His lips thin into a sad smile. “Given the situation, it was the only comfort I could provide.”
And then he’s gone.
I stare at the closed door, having received some of the answers I’d wanted, yet they leave me feeling hollow, as if the truth carved out more than it gave back.
I crawl farther onto the bed and curl into a ball, despondently nibbling popcorn as the muted hum of the engine faintly caries through the floor.
The hours pass in a slow, heavy drift.
I doze. Fight tears. Curse my father. Alternate between crackers and camembert.
The doctor arrives at some point. A young British man who gives me a thorough once-over before declaring there’s no sign of water on my lungs or any other underlying issues, then takes my details to forward the bloodwork results Raffael requested for himself.