Chapter 15 Aria
ARIA
The weight of the chef's knife feels foreign in my hand despite years of muscle memory.
I turn it over slowly, examining the blade for damage, and marvel at the fact that Nikolai's people managed to recover my entire knife set from the yacht's wreckage.
The custom Japanese steel gleams under my apartment's fluorescent lighting, each piece carefully cleaned and returned to its velvet-lined case like nothing catastrophic ever happened.
Except everything happened.
I set the knife down on my kitchen counter with more force than necessary, the metallic clink echoing through the small space.
Three weeks stranded on an island with a man who terrifies and attracts me in equal measure.
Of learning what his hands feel like on my skin, what his voice sounds like when he whispers my name in the darkness.
Of pretending the rest of the world didn't exist.
Now I'm back, and reality tastes like ash on my tongue.
My phone sits face-down on the counter, deliberately positioned so I can't see the screen.
I've been home for a couple of days, and I haven't checked it once.
I know what I'll find there. Messages from clients asking where I've been, probably cancellations from the jobs I missed while playing castaway with a crime boss.
The thought makes my stomach clench with anxiety that has nothing to do with the nausea that's been plaguing me since we got back.
The sound of a key turning in my lock makes me freeze, my hand instinctively reaching for the knife I just set down. Only two people have keys to my apartment. Me and Maya.
My sister stumbles through the door with a smile that's too bright, too wide, too familiar. The kind of smile that means she's high and trying desperately to hide it. My heart sinks like a stone dropped into deep water.
"Aria!" Maya's voice pitches higher than normal, the syllables running together slightly. "Oh my God, you're alive! I thought… when I was told you were presumed lost at sea, I thought you were dead!"
She rushes toward me, her movements jerky and uncoordinated, and throws her arms around my neck.
I stand rigidly in her embrace, my body refusing to return the gesture.
Up close, the evidence is unmistakable. Her pupils are pinpricks despite the dim lighting of my apartment.
Her skin has that grayish cast I've learned to recognize.
The faint chemical smell clinging to her clothes makes my nose wrinkle.
Eight months clean. Gone.
"Maya." My voice comes out flat, emotionless, because if I let myself feel anything right now, I'll shatter into pieces I won't be able to reassemble. "You're using again."
She pulls back, and I watch the performance unfold like I've seen it a hundred times before. The wounded expression. The hand pressed to her chest in mock offense. The tears that spring to her eyes with practiced ease.
"What? No! Aria, how can you even say that? I've been so worried about you, and this is how you greet me?" Her voice cracks on the last word, and I feel the familiar tug of guilt trying to take root in my chest.
I don't let it.
"Your pupils are pinpricks. You can barely stand straight. And you smell like whatever you've been smoking or snorting or shooting into your veins." Each word comes out sharp and precise, cutting through her excuses before she can fully form them. "Don't lie to me. Not now. Not after everything."
Maya's face crumbles, the mask slipping to reveal the desperate addict underneath.
She sags against my kitchen counter, her thin frame trembling, and the tears that fall now look genuine.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I just… when you disappeared, I couldn't handle it.
I thought you were dead, Aria. I thought I'd lost you like we lost Mom, and I just needed something to make it stop hurting. "
The mention of our mother makes my chest constrict painfully.
I was seventeen when the car accident took her, suddenly responsible for a twelve-year-old sister and a mountain of grief I had no idea how to process.
I became the parent, the provider, the one who held everything together while my own world fell apart.
And Maya became my purpose, my reason for surviving when giving up would have been so much easier.
But I'm tired. God, I'm so tired of this cycle.
"How long?" I demand, my hands gripping the counter's edge so hard my knuckles turn white. "How long have you been using?"
Maya's gaze drops to the floor, her fingers picking at the hem of her shirt with nervous energy. "A few weeks. Maybe a month. I don't… time kind of blurs together, you know?"
A month. She relapsed a month ago, which means she was using before I even left for that yacht party.
Before the storm. Before everything changed.
All those cheerful texts about NA meetings, all those updates about how good she was doing, all lies.
The betrayal cuts deeper than I expect, slicing through the careful numbness I've wrapped around myself.
"Where did you get the money?" The question comes out quieter, more dangerous. "Your rent isn't due for another week. You don't have a job. So where did you get the money for drugs, Maya?"
The day I got called for the catering job on the yacht, she'd called and asked for money.
Her face goes even paler, if that's possible, and I watch her throat work as she swallows. "I borrowed it. From someone. Just to get by while you were gone, you know? I thought… I thought I'd be able to pay it back before you got home."
The words hang in the air between us like a guillotine blade waiting to drop.
I think of Nikolai's world, of the cold efficiency with which he eliminated threats.
I think of the way his hands moved when he caught that fish in the shallows, lethal precision wrapped in deceptive calm.
I think of the darkness that lives beneath his expensive suits and cultured exterior, and my stomach turns over.
"Who did you borrow from?" My voice barely rises above a whisper, but Maya flinches like I've shouted.
"Just… just some guy. A loan shark, I guess.
He operates out of the industrial district, helps people who can't get regular loans.
" She's talking faster now, words tumbling over each other in her desperation to explain.
"He seemed nice at first, you know? Really understanding about my situation.
He said the interest was reasonable, that I could pay him back in installments. "
I close my eyes, fighting the urge to scream. Of course he seemed nice. Predators always do, right up until they have their teeth in your throat. "How much, Maya? How much do you owe?"
The silence stretches so long, I think she's not going to answer. When she finally speaks, her voice is barely audible. "Fifty thousand dollars."
The number hits me like a physical blow, stealing the breath from my lungs.
Fifty thousand dollars. That's more than I make in six months, maybe longer if I'm being honest about the lean periods when clients cancel or choose cheaper options.
That's the kind of debt that doesn't just disappear.
That's the kind of debt that follows you, that grows teeth and claws and destroys everything you've built.
My hands shake as I grip the counter, my mind racing through impossible calculations.
I could liquidate my business, sell every piece of equipment, and break my lease on the commercial kitchen.
Maybe that would cover half of it. Maybe.
But then I'd have nothing, no way to earn money, no way to dig us out of the hole Maya's addiction has created.
I think of the envelope Cyril pressed into my hands, thick with cash. Payment for the catering job I never completed, plus compensation for my ordeal. I haven't opened it yet, haven't counted the bills inside, but I know it won't be enough. Not for this.
I think of Nikolai's ice-blue eyes watching me drive away, the raw longing on his face that made my certainty crumble.
I think of his world, of the power and resources at his command, of how easily he could make this problem disappear.
The thought makes my skin crawl with shame and something else I refuse to examine too closely.
I can't involve him in this. I won't. Maya is my responsibility, my burden to carry. I've been cleaning up her messes since she was twelve years old, and I'll figure out how to clean up this one, too. Somehow.
"He's already called twice today." Maya's voice trembles, genuine fear finally breaking through the drug-induced haze.
"Asking when he's getting paid. He said…
he said he knows where you live. Where I live.
He said if I don't start making payments, he'll…
" She trails off, but I don't need her to finish the sentence.