Chapter Fourteen #2
“Don’t! Don’t stand there and rewrite it into something noble. You went through my iPad. End of story.”
“You’re right. I fucked up. That’s on me.”
She drops the checklist, addressing me fully.
“I don’t want your apology. I want this circus to be over and for me to get the promotion. Then, you can go back to flying by the seat of your pants, and I can erase you from my memory. Believe me, we are never working together again.”
Her glassy eyes are holding back a tidal wave.
“If you would just—”
“There’s no talking your way out of this, Hartwell. No excuses to change my mind. I regret every second I spent with you.”
The words are a serrated blade across my throat. She thinks I’m a snake. That our night together was a tactical maneuver to make a play for her data. Knowing she doubts the way I held her in that shower pisses me off. I want to put my fist through the Hag’s rusted bulkhead.
“I’m not going to fight you, Ivy. I wasn’t digging through your shit to be a dick. I was trying to crack the code that is you. Because I want to know every damn thing about you. But I get it. You don’t trust me.”
I tilt her chin to meet my eyes.
“I am sorry. Truly.”
She stands there, vibrating with tension. For a moment, her gaze drops to my mouth, and the air between us ignites. It sure as hell isn’t indifference.
It’s a goddamn firestorm.
I see the heat. The memory. The thing she’s trying to bury alive.
Then she kills it.
Right in front of me.
“I have a million-dollar goal to hit,” she says, stepping outside my touch. “Mic the talent and stay out of my way.”
She takes two steps, then sighs.
“Oh for the love of—”
Juliette Vexford steps onto the deck of this floating rust bucket like it’s a super yacht. Pearls, posture, and more than enough judgment to sink the ship.
“Ms. Ellison.” Her gaze lands on me. “Mr. Hartwell.”
“Ms. Vexford,” Ivy says smoothly. “We’re finishing final prep. How can I help you?”
Juliette scowls back, plucking a single sheet from her clipboard. She serves it to me like a subpoena with fancy hotel letterhead.
“I prefer to hand-deliver final notices. This is the itemized bill for Dare4Change. I suggest you review it thoroughly.”
Ivy yanks the paper from my hand.
Her eyes scan the document and stop.
Her pupils blow wide.
“FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS?!” she screeches. “Half a—are you kidding me? This is outrageous!”
Ivy shakes her head like she can rattle the number loose.
“We completed the claim paperwork you gave us,” she pleads. “I mean, I filled them out. I did everything you asked.”
“The claim was denied,” Juliette says, looking at us as if we’re a bug on the windshield of her otherwise perfect horizon.
“Apparently, operating a motorized vehicle in our historic lobby and decimating an 18th-century Venetian side table does not qualify as ‘standard wear and tear.’ One cannot simply glue an antique back together.”
The hull groans under a large wave. Wind tears off the water in a cold, salt-soaked mist. Somewhere above us, a sea lion screams into the void.
Same, buddy. Same.
“We secured a replacement from a private collector in Mexico,” Juliette says, glancing at her watch as if our financial ruin is a mere inconvenience.
“I will now bid the Saltwater Saviors crew farewell. It has not been a pleasure hosting Dare4Change this weekend. I trust the damage has reached its conclusion.”
She gives us one final, icy beat of confirmation before leaving.
Ivy detonates.
“THREE MILLION DOLLARS!” She paces in a circle like she’s going to burn a groove into the planks. “THREE—threeeee—THAT’S what I promised Saltwater Saviors. That number, I accounted for.”
Her voice is ascending into a frequency only baby sea lions can hear.
“Yes, we cleared a million per day, but I had to rework the metadata, push three extra newsletters, and act as a twenty-four-seven fluffer to keep the algorithm interested. I kept things on schedule. Now she wants another half million? FROM WHERE?! THE BOTTOM OF THE OCEAN WHERE MY WILL TO LIVE JUST SANK?!”
“Ivy, breathe.”
”I am breathing!“ she snaps.
She’s not. Her chest is rising too fast, too shallow, her shirt straining with every panicked inhale.
“OH FUCK—oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck! Cole, we can’t hit this goal. Which means neither of us gets the promotion. Our careers are sinking like the Titanic.” She grips the rail, knuckles turning white. “I’m going to be sick. I can’t breathe.”
She leans over the side of the vessel, her breath coming in sharp, little gasps.
Dammit.
My hand finds her back, hesitant and gentle. She doesn’t pull away, and that right there says everything about how bad this really is.
I stare at the water while she pulls herself back together, or tries to, and suddenly, my whole weekend of “winning” moments crashes into me like a wave.
The ATV in the lobby. I let Blaze go, because chaos looks good on camera. Sure, I had a blast, but I could’ve stopped it.
The foam cannon. I turned it into a fucking spectacle, because drama gets views. Fun? Hell yeah, but I should’ve unplugged the machine.
The ghost net. The gloves I didn’t grab because I cared more about a viral moment.
It dawns on me.
This is all my fault.
Every time I was “saving” the moment, I was creating more work for her.
She makes things solid. So they don’t fall apart.
I break them and call it content. There’s a word for that. Noise.
Impact that lasts. Not noise.
When Reece, my boss at Dare4Change, said that to us before, I didn’t understand. Now I do.
I grab my phone, thumbs flying across the screen before I chicken out. A text to Reece, short and to the point. He was right. About all of it. About what actually counts.
My hand moves in slow circles across Ivy’s back.
I know now is the worst possible moment. She doesn’t want to hear it, but I’ve waited too damn long to say it.
“Ivy, Books for Every Block was your win. I tossed out a half-baked idea. You were the architect. You built the team and the metrics.” I rub my jaw, frustration bleeding into the words. “I’ve been acting like my ‘ideas’ and your actual work are the same. They’re not.”
She straightens, pulling her breath back under control—almost.
“You don’t want my apology. Tough. Because I see you, Ivy. All of you. And I should’ve fucking said it months ago.”
Her composure slips, then snaps back into place.
“Cole, thank you for that, really. But it changes nothing. I admit, you bring a lot of value to the team. You see possibility in things other people walk past. I would never have thought to save a town with a bundle of old wires. I know how to build. You know how to dream. Those aren’t the same thing. ”
“Don’t sell yourself short. You’re the best at what you do.” My fingers itch to reach for her, but I hold back. “And God help me, we are damn good together when we’re not at each other’s throats.”
The words hang there. Too honest. And way too late.
“Maybe,” she says. “But you have to trust your teammates, Cole.”
That lands harder than anything she’s said all day.
She looks away first. Her focus goes to the deck, the crew, anywhere but me. And that’s when I know…
This is really over.
“We’re live in five,” she says, smoothing her blouse. “So smile and pretend this isn’t a total catastrophe. For morale.”
I watch her walk away. The real cost of this weekend isn’t the half-million-dollar hotel invoice. It’s this. This thing between us that I don’t even know how to name, let alone fix.
I can’t spin this. No camera angle can erase the cracks in her trust; there’s no last-second save. For the first time in my life, I’ve got nothing. Just the sight of her back, retreating, and the weight of every wrong choice I made.
Five minutes later, the Salty Old Sea Hag is a stage.
Same rusted railings. Same sloshing dark water smacking the hull. Same sea lions barking overhead like a panel of drunk judges.
But now, everybody’s in position.
Blaze is mic’d and marked on the bow, his ripped abs glistening proudly through wild Hawaiian fabric.
Orson is at ease in this environment, with his hand confidently on the binoculars hanging around his polo.
Ivy anchors herself at the monitor station, tablet in hand, headset on, eyes locked on the donation counter.
“Live in three,” Ivy says through my earpiece calmly. “Two. One.”
I hit the Go Live button.
Blaze spreads his arms wide like he’s about to hug the entire Pacific Ocean.
“YO, LEGENDS! Welcome to the ONE, the ONLY, the SALTY OLD SEA HAG!” He grins straight down the lens.
“Dr. O swore to me that’s her real name, bros.
Yes, we LOVE her, yes, she’s seen better days—like, a LOT better.
Every dollar you drop in the next hour keeps this beautiful disaster afloat—Last day of Seal The Deal. LET’S GOOOOO!”
Blaze shoots finger guns at the camera, drags Orson into frame, and gets him to go “pew, pew, pew.”
I pan wide, then swing left to catch the cliffs—
Sea lions. Everywhere.
Piled on the rock shelves in sleek, tan, and chocolate heaps, sprawled over each other like sunbathers who claimed the best pool chairs at dawn.
A large male lifts his head and lets out a deep, grumpy bark.
Above them, tourists crowd the cliff railing, snapping pics.
One teenage boy dips down with his hand out, like he’s expecting a high-five.
Orson straightens his glasses with a sigh. “Allow me to clarify, again, that these are California sea lions, not seals. This is a distinction I will repeat ad nauseam until my larynx collapses. They are exceptionally social, cognitively advanced pinnipeds who—”
“Yes, Dr. Echols, we’re all very excited that you know the difference,“ Sienna interrupts. She’s in her work khakis and a navy Saltwater Saviors polo, with her hair pulled back into a knot. “Before we start the tour, I thought we could point out a few residents we’ve helped before.”
“Follow them, Cole,” Ivy commands.
“Copy,” I murmur. “How are donations?”
“Slow. Painfully slow. Just get the shot, Hartwell.”
Sienna grabs Blaze by the arm, hauling him toward the port rail.
“Dr. Sienna, quick question,” Blaze says. “What if the sea lions aren’t just sea lions?”
Sienna stares at him. “What?”
“What if they’re guardians?” He sweeps a hand across the horizon. “Of the mermaids.”
“Blaze.”
“NO, LISTEN. The ocean is like, seventy percent unexplored. SEVENTY. You’re telling me in all that water there’s not one single smokin’ hot mermaid?”
“I am telling you exactly that.”
“HOLD UP! You’re beautiful, you don’t get seasick, you smell like saltwater even when you’re not wet. Sounds like a mermaid to me.”
“Blaze! Listen carefully. I’m not a mermaid, I’m a lesbian.”
His face cycles through four distinct facial expressions. It settles into a grin so wide it’s almost blinding.
“PLOT TWIST! Okay, FIRST of all, iconic. SECOND, I have, like, millions of gay friends. Hookups? Setups? Name the vibe, I got the squad for it!”
She turns away, smiling despite herself.
I bite back a laugh and keep the shot steady.
Blaze Tate. Forever the wingman. Never the headline in his own love story. Maybe he prefers it that way.
Sienna braces herself on the port rail and points out over the water. “We spotted a pup of ours this morning. We rescued her about four months ago. When we anchored, she was swimming with her mother. I hope they’re still close.”
I punch in on the waterline. The pup rockets from the surface. As if on cue.
ARF. ARF-ARF. brRRAAF.
“Left ear,” Orson says, binoculars raised. “Yellow tag. That’s confirmed. She’s one of ours.”
The pup disappears.
Surfaces again.
Barks harder.
Faster.
Blaze tilts his head toward the water. “Dr. O, can you translate for us? ’Cause I’m hearing, ‘Hey, new neighbors! Cool boat! Also, GTFO.’”
“It very well could be. Sea lion vocalizations aren’t random, but highly structured communications designed to reinforce social hierarchies—”
“Echols, do you see the mama?” Sienna cuts in.
“Nothing yet.” Orson scans the ocean with his binoculars. “Blaze, I believe I have what you refer to as a ‘fun fact.’ Female sea lions are classified as ‘cows’. They are exceptionally attentive mothers, using unique vocal calls and scent-based recognition to locate their pups.”
The pup dives.
Comes up in the same spot.
brRAAAF. brRAAAF. brRAAAF.
Dives.
Same pattern. Same urgency.
Sienna’s whole body changes. “That’s a distress signal.”
“You’re right.” Orson’s lecture cadence is gone. “Her mother should be alongside her.”
Sienna is already moving. “I’m getting the pole camera.”
She grabs a long retrieval pole rigged with a small waterproof camera at the end. She drops to one knee and lowers it into the water with smooth, practiced precision.
I shift my camera to the tiny monitor mounted near her grip, catching the murky underwater feed as she angles the pole down and out.
Green haze.
Particles drifting.
Swaying strands of kelp.
Then—
Something metal.
Sienna adjusts the angle. The shape comes into focus.
A rusted washing machine drum is jammed between the rocks.
The mother sea lion is trapped inside.
Her head is lodged in the drum. She’s thrashing, twisting, fighting. She can’t pull free.
Bubbles burst around her. Frantic. Violent.
She’s stuck.
“Oh God,” Sienna breathes.
Then she lifts her head and yells, voice cracking across the deck like a flare shot into the sky.
“WE HAVE A RESCUE!”