Chapter 32
The supply boat slammed against the platform, the impact making Ivy’s teeth throb. Icy spray hit her face and diesel fumes clogged her throat. She clung to the railing as the deck heaved, slick with seawater and ice.
The Vega loomed overhead—more beast than structure. Machinery roared deep in its guts as the wind pushed through the lattice of steel as if trying to warn her back. Up close, it wasn’t the sleek operation from the brochures—it was brutal and ugly, built for survival, not show.
She joined the line for the gangway as workers disembarked. A deckhand manned the gangway, the wind tugging at his waterproofs. Mid-sixties, his face was a map of hard winters and physical work, every line carved by salt and strain.
He raised his hand. “Hold up princess. Let’s see your clearance.”
"I'm Ivy Lambourne. I'm here to see Jack Barnes."
He snorted. "This isn't a visitor center, lady."
Ivy drew out her passport and business card. “My family’s financing the BlackRock investment in this rig. I have every right to see what we’re investing in.” She held his gaze. “Try not to choke on it.”
His brows rose, just a flicker—but it was enough. She’d landed the hit. He pulled out a radio, muttering into it while eyeing her tailored coat and heeled boots.
A manager arrived within two minutes, clipboard in hand, irritation plain despite his unruly beard. He took one look at her credentials and the irritation transformed into something more careful.
“Fine,” he said at last. “But you’ll need proper gear—helmet, goggles, steel-toed boots if we’ve got your size.” He jerked his head to the grimy gangway-keeper. “Winston here will take you to Barnes.”
He threw an aside to Winston. “Make sure she’s on that return boat. This isn’t a hotel.”
Winston grunted and turned without waiting to see if she followed. He tramped across the deck and halted at a yellow store room where he dug out pieces of safety equipment and tossed them at Ivy.
The kit was huge, designed for men twice her size. Ivy had to strap the helmet tight to stop it slipping over her eyes. The boots were too large, but she managed with help of spare odd socks from an abandoned heap in a corner.
Okay, you’ve done harder things than this, Ivy.
She set her jaw and adjusted the helmet one final time.
Winston looked her up and down, then satisfied, led her onto the main deck, where the noise was physical against her skin.
Generators roared, metal clanged against metal, and somewhere in the distance someone was operating engines that screeched and whined.
The air tasted of hot metal and salt, with an underlying chemical tang that made her want to breathe through her mouth.
Workers swerved, barely sparing her a glance. She was clearly out of place in her Sloane Street coat beneath the safety vest. Winston stopped near what looked like a control station, checking something on his clipboard.
“Barnes should be in the engineering office. Danny!”
He waved over a wiry man in grease-stained coveralls. “Take Miss Lambourne to Engineering—and make sure she doesn’t fall overboard.”
“On it.” Danny adjusted his round glasses, leaving a smear of grease on the lens. “Try not to trip, princess.”
Ivy gave him a tight smile. “I’ll do my best not to ruin your day.”
They headed inside through a heavy metal door that clanged shut behind them, cutting off some of the noise.
The interior corridors were narrow, lit by harsh fluorescent lights that buzzed and flickered intermittently.
Pipes ran along the ceiling, labeled with codes she didn't understand, and the floor vibrated constantly.
The engineering office was stark and functional—two metal desks, empty chairs, computer screens glowing with blue light.
And it was empty.
No Jack.
File cabinets lined one wall, and a large map was tacked to the wall showing the Vega’s layout in intimidating detail.
Danny checked a logbook on one of the desks, running a dirty fingernail down a list of names and locations. "Looks like Barnes went down to Leg C for pressure valve maintenance. Should be back soon."
Before Ivy could ask how long soon meant, his radio crackled to life. A voice, distorted by static: "Control to Deck Four. We've got a containment alarm. Need eyes on sector three immediately."
Danny's head jerked up, his casual demeanor evaporating. "Copy that. On my way."
He pointed at Ivy with an oil ingrained finger.
“Stay put.” He was already heading for the door. “I’ll be right back.”
“Wait—”
But he was gone, his voice echoing down the hall. “Don’t touch anything! And don’t move!”
The door slammed shut behind him, sealing her in.
Great.
Ivy checked her watch. Forty minutes until the supply boat left. Waiting would be smart. Safe. But every instinct screamed that she didn’t have time for safe.
With one finger, she traced the route to Leg C on the map—two levels down, through a maintenance corridor.
Easy.
She grabbed a flashlight from a charging station on the desk and headed for the door.
The corridor stretched ahead of her, empty and somehow more oppressive without Danny to soften the space.
She followed the map's directions, taking a stairwell that led down.
The metal stairs were slick, condensation dripping from pipes overhead, and she had to grip the railing to keep from slipping in the stupid boots.
The deeper she went, the quieter it became. The roar of the generators faded to a distant rumble, replaced by the groaning of metal under stress and the muted whump of waves against the rig's support legs. The air grew warmer, pungent with the smell of oil and chemicals that made her eyes water.
Lights surged, faded.
A chill that had nothing to do with temperature crawled down the back of her neck.
Come on, Ivy.
At the base of the stairwell, a corridor stretched toward Leg C. The lighting was worse here, every third fixture dark or winking. Her flashlight beam cut through the dimness, catching on pipes and valves and equipment she couldn't name.
"Jack?" Her voice echoed off the metal walls, too loud and too small at the same time.
No answer.
She moved forward, boots noisy on the grated floor. The impact of the waves resonated through the steel beneath her feet.
She rounded a corner.
Oh God.
Jack lay crumpled near a massive pump housing, her helmet several feet away, blood dark and wet against her temple. Her eyes were closed, one arm bent at an angle that made Ivy's stomach clench. She wasn’t moving.
"Jack!" Ivy fell to her knees beside her. "Jack, can you hear me?"
Jack's eyes fluttered. "Duchess? Ha! I'm hallucinating."
“You wish,” Ivy pressed her scarf to the wound. “Hold still.”
Blood soaked through the fabric immediately, warm and slick against her fingers.
Ivy swallowed against a wave of nausea. Head wounds always bleed badly even when they’re small. No need to panic.
“Jack. What happened?"
Jack frowned. "Pressure valve alert. I was checking it, then—" Confusion clouded her eyes.
A metallic shriek cut through the air, sharp and sudden.
Footsteps.
A voice came from the catwalk. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Ivy squinted into the gloom.
A man stood on the catwalk above them, oil-streaked coveralls, hard hat pulled low. She caught a flash of chiseled features, a burn scar on one hand. A wrench loose in the other.
She didn’t move but her breath stumbled. “Can you call for help? Jack's hurt. Call for a medic!"
He didn't move. Just watched her. Why wasn’t he moving?
"Please,” she tried again. “She needs help.”
His mouth curved, not quite a smile. Something colder. This man wasn’t here to help.
“Should’ve stayed on the boat.”
Jack stirred. "Run, Duchess.”
Ivy stood, legs trembling. "I'm not leaving you."
The man started down, boots ringing on steel.
Ivy backed away—one step, another.
She couldn't carry Jack. Couldn't fight this man. She could run, try to get help, but that meant leaving Jack alone with him.
The man reached the bottom of the stairs.
Dust danced in the air between them, caught in the beam of her flashlight.
He lunged, wrench arcing through the dim light.
She tried to dodge—
Too slow.
Pain exploded across her temple.
The world tilted.
Gravity slipped its grip.
Sound vanished replaced by high-pitched ringing and the thud of her own heartbeat.
Metal bit into her palms as salt and iron flooded her mouth.
Above her, the wrench caught the light—dark stains that might’ve been rust.
Or blood.
"Nothing personal."
She braced—too late. Her shoulders erupted in white-hot agony, driving her to her knees.
Ryder's face flashed through her mind—the way he'd looked at her hours ago, the gentle strength in his hands, the promise in his eyes that she'd been too scared to acknowledge.
She should have told him. Should have stayed. Should have—
White light.
Black ocean swallowed everything.