A Perfect Disaster

HELEN

I board the Marine IV with a folder firmly tucked under my arm, my uniform crisply pressed, and a conviction lodged deep in my chest: this cruise cannot go wrong.

It must not go wrong. In fact, I won’t let anything ruin it.

The morning sun spills across the deck like a golden sheet, illuminating every surface with an almost blinding glow, and for a second I have to squint to adjust to so much light.

I inhale the mix of scents that’s always on the ship before we set sail and count in my head. One, two, three. It works. It almost always works to ground me and help me regain control.

“You look very serious, security officer on board,” Gonzalo murmurs playfully behind me as he hoists a heavy box of reflective vests. “Are you okay? Because anyone who looks at you is going to be scared out of their wits.”

I turn toward him with a raised eyebrow, maintaining my composure at all times.

“Perfect. That’s exactly the effect I’m going for on my first day here.”

Gonzalo smiles, and yes, he manages to irritate me, because it’s obvious he hasn’t spent three nights in a row reviewing evacuation routes, emergency drills, floor plans, maintenance reports, and endless staff rosters until the letters started dancing around in his head like ants in a choreographed routine.

“Well, congratulations, boss,” he teases again. “If the ship catches fire, the fire will politely apologize and put itself out just to avoid upsetting you.”

I don’t want to laugh, but I do a little, just a little, just enough to seem human and not like a walking robot.

“If the ship catches fire, don’t even think about making a joke,” I reply as I walk into the main corridor without stopping. “You’ll follow protocol B-17, section three, point four, to the letter and without skipping a single comma. Is that clear?”

“How romantic,” he replies sarcastically.

“I’m a dream come true,” I say, just as sarcastically.

“More like a nightmare with high-level credentials.”

I glare at him, but before he can see me, Gonzalo has already moved ahead toward the technical area.

Sometimes I’m truly grateful he exists. Not just because he’s competent at his job—which he is—but because he knows how to make me smile or breathe a sigh of relief when I’ve forgotten how to breathe.

And I’ve spent weeks not quite knowing how to do that, holding back the pressure, the expectations, and the fear of failing again.

This cruise is important. Not important in the routine sense that you have to do it right, but truly important—the kind that marks a turning point in your professional career.

“If this goes wrong, Helen, you’ll be starting from scratch again.

” Once again with half-packed suitcases, cabins that never quite feel like home, and bosses who promise you with fake smiles that they’ll keep you in mind for the next permanent position, like someone throwing candy from a carnival float.

What I call a super-perfect future.

The truth is, I’m tired of proving over and over again that I’m good at what I do, that I don’t make serious mistakes like so many others have, that I can coordinate teams under pressure, defuse crises before they spiral out of control, and stay calm when everyone around me is losing their cool.

I’m especially tired of always being the temporary one, the one who fills in gaps but never settles into a permanent role.

Transmarine’s headquarters has been evaluating candidates for months for the new position of onshore operational safety supervisor, among others.

A stable position, with set hours, my own desk, and the chance to have a plant that will probably die on me because I’ve never been able to care for anything that depends on me for more than two weeks straight.

But at least it would be mine. And that’s why this cruise is my definitive calling card, and I fully intend to hand it in flawlessly, without a single blemish that could tarnish my track record.

I walk through the interior of the Marine IV with the roster open in my hands, reviewing the names of the crew organized by department.

Everything seems to be in its proper place and under control—until it suddenly isn’t.

I come to a screeching halt in the middle of the corridor, my finger frozen on a name that shouldn’t be there under any circumstances.

“Maika Aranda. Entertainment Coordinator.”

For a moment, the entire ship seems to tilt beneath my feet, even though I know perfectly well that it remains docked, solid, enormous, and perfectly stable. I’m the one who loses her balance, and the sensation runs down my spine like an unexpected chill.

“No…” I murmur.

The word escapes me so quietly I can barely hear it, but I feel it rising from a dark, ancient place, covered in dust, resentment, and memories I’d rather not have to stir up.

I read the name again, as if the paper might correct itself or the ink might rearrange itself.

But it doesn’t happen. The name is still there, insolent and immovable, exactly like her.

“Maika.” The last time I saw her, she was wearing ridiculous earrings that drew too much attention, a smile capable of ruining the most sensible decisions, and an absolutely criminal knack for turning any situation into chaos with background music.

At first, there was tension between us. I don’t like to admit it even now, but there was.

That kind of tension that arises when someone irritates you deeply and yet you notice every time they walk into a room.

The kind that leads you to argue over nonsense just to have an excuse to keep looking at them.

The kind that a prudent person ignores and an idiot feeds without restraint.

I tried to be sensible. But Maika was simply Maika, with all her intensity.

And in the end, I became an idiot.

Then came that massive event. Thousands of attendees, last-minute changes, a poorly marked secondary stage, and an impromptu decision on her part that completely disrupted the flow of traffic.

People piled up where they shouldn’t have, the security team had to intervene hastily, and the executives looked for someone to blame.

And they blamed me, of course. I clearly remember the conference room, my superiors’ tense faces, my report open on the table, and Maika silent on the other side, with an expression that never told me anything.

Maybe she felt guilt. Fear. Cowardice. All mixed together.

But in the end, I bore the brunt of the disaster. And she disappeared.

And now she’s here, on my ship, my last real chance to get the job I want so badly.

I squeeze the folder so hard that the edge digs into the palm of my hand.

“No way,” I mutter to myself.

“Did you say something?” asks Silvia, one of the deck supervisors, who appears beside me with a tablet in her hand.

I look up quickly, trying to compose myself.

“No, nothing important. I was just reviewing the staff list.”

“Entertainment is arriving today, too. I think their coordinator is already settling into her cabin.”

“Of course she is. Because the universe not only has a sense of humor, but also a finely tuned sense of malice.”

“Perfect,” I reply, and although I sound convincing, I know full well that’s not the case at all. “I need to check the crew cabins, the signage, and the routes to the emergency assembly points.”

Silvia nods.

“Go ahead. Deck three, zone C. They’re finishing up room assignments.”

“Thanks.”

I walk away before she can notice my face burning. “I’m not nervous. I’m not nervous. No. I am. Nervous,” I repeat to myself. “I’m angry. That’s different. Much more dignified and controllable. Of course it is.”

I head down the internal stairs toward the crew area, and the atmosphere changes immediately.

Upstairs, the Marine IV shows off its best and brightest side, as if we were in paradise itself.

Down here, however, it moves in sync with the constant rush of those who make everything look easy and like a simple job from the outside.

This is where the real human machinery is.

There’s no room for nonsense, and above all, no room for Maika Aranda to have a say in this equation.

As I walk forward, I automatically check the emergency signs, the fire extinguishers, and the laminated floor plans next to the doors.

“Okay, at least everything is in order.” My breathing begins to return to its normal rhythm.

But then I hear a laugh at the end of the hallway.

A damn laugh I’d recognize even surrounded by a huge commotion in the middle of a Bad Bunny concert.

My body betrays me; I feel my stomach tighten, my mouth go dry, and something very unpleasant hit me right below my ribs. “No, Helen. Don’t even think about it.”

I look up and see Maika Aranda at the end of the hallway, leaning against a doorframe as if the entire ship had been waiting just for her.

She’s wearing light-colored pants that look absolutely stunning on her, a white T-shirt tucked in, and her hair pulled back with a few loose strands caressing her forehead and cheeks.

Her skin is sun-kissed, her lips curved into a distracted smile, and she has that magnetic presence that has always struck me as disrespectful to those of us who want to do our jobs well and not have accidents because we’re drooling.

Did I say drooling?

It seems I did, because in fact, she looks even more beautiful. Very, very beautiful. “Damn, it’s infuriating,” I tell myself. And I, unfortunately, still have eyes and a memory.

Maika turns her head at that moment and sees me. The smile freezes on her lips. For a few seconds, nothing else happens. You can only hear the usual sounds in this part of the cruise ship. And a second later, she straightens up.

“Helen?”

Hearing my name on her lips bothers me. Not because it sounds bad, but because it sounds too good, too alluring, delicious, spectacular, dreamlike, and… familiar.