Chapter 4
The Opaline Royale Lounge sprawls across the entire stern of Deck Twelve, and stepping into it is like walking into an underwater palace—as if Poseidon himself had something to prove.
Floor-to-ceiling windows curve along the back wall, offering panoramic views of the Copenhagen harbor, and every surface gleams with mother-of-pearl accents, seafoam green velvet, and enough crystal to stock a chandelier factory.
Sculpted wave patterns ripple across the ceiling, and strategically placed aquariums glow with bioluminescent jellyfish that pulse in a hypnotic rhythm that might be trying to tell us something in Morse code.
A massive banner stretches across the far wall that reads, SECOND ACT SOCIETY in elegant gold script, with the tagline beneath reading, “The first act made you a success, the second act will make you a legend.”
The first act made me into a middle-aged woman who trips over corpses for a living. I can’t wait to see what the second act has in store. At least whatever it is, I’ll tackle it with my newfound friends and a husband who’s so hot it borders on inconsiderate.
“Well, bless my bratwurst,” Nettie breathes, her gray curls bouncing as she surveys the room.
She’s wearing a sequined navy top that catches the light with every movement, paired with white capri pants and enough costume jewelry to qualify as a security risk.
At eighty-something, she’s got the energy of a woman half her age and the man-hunting instincts of a lioness on the prowl.
“Look at all these silver foxes. It’s like someone raided a CEO convention and herded them onto our ship. ”
“And they all came willingly.” I raise an eyebrow. “What a time to be alive—if your name is Nettie Butterworth.”
Bess adjusts her sensible cardigan—coral this time, paired with pressed khaki slacks and sensible flats.
Her short red hair is styled in that practical cut that screams retired schoolteacher, which she is.
After thirty years teaching home economics at Honey Hollow High, her dentist husband decided his secretary was a better investment.
So Bess took to the high seas on his dime, draining his bank account one port at a time.
She’s a wise woman— and one I’m gladly following in the footsteps of.
“They’re just men, Nettie,” Bess chuffs. “With gray hair and questionable prostates.”
“Gray hair is distinguished.” Nettie fans herself with her hand. “And I don’t care about prostates as long as they can still dance.”
“You don’t dance.” Bess rolls her eyes. “You assault people rhythmically.”
“That’s just your opinion.”
“It’s also everyone’s opinion.”
“I’m choosing not to hear that.”
Marina laughs, a genuine sound that lights up her whole face. She’s changed into a simple emerald sheath dress that brings out the red in her hair, paired with nude heels and minimal jewelry. She’s a stunner. And yet, her superficial qualities are all I know about her as of yet.
“You two are so warm and funny.” She dabs at the corner of her eye. “I can’t thank you all enough for welcoming me into the fold.”
“We’re glad you’re here,” I say, adjusting the neckline of my deep blue wrap dress.
It’s one of my favorites—the kind that makes me feel put-together without trying too hard.
Or without trying too hard to look like I tried too hard.
“I’m so glad we happened to be in the right place at the right time. ”
Marina nods. “That was quite the lucky coincidence for me.”
I shake my head. “I don’t believe in coincidences. For some reason, the universe led us to that bar this afternoon.”
“The universe, and possibly a shared love of afternoon cocktails,” Nettie adds.
“And fried herring,” Bess mutters. “Don’t forget the fried herring.”
Nettie nods. “Nobody forgets the fried herring, Bess. Fried herring is a lifestyle.”
A loud crash echoes across the room, and we all turn toward the noise.
Nicolette stands near the champagne tower with a shattered flute glittering at her feet while two servers scramble to pick up the pieces.
She’s hissing something at Gideon, the leader of this second act pack, and her burgundy cocktail dress catches the light as she gestures sharply.
The asymmetrical neckline shows off her collarbones, and her dark bob doesn’t move despite how animated she’s getting.
Gideon stands there in a tailored charcoal suit, completely unfazed.
There’s a silk pocket square tucked into his breast pocket, and an exquisite paisley scarf draped around his neck in shades of teal and gold.
His expression remains calm, almost amused, which only seems to infuriate Nicolette more.
“Someone needs a nap,” Nettie observes.
“Someone needs a new boyfriend,” I mutter.
“Or a muzzle,” Bess adds primly as Gideon starts to rant at the woman.
“Bess!”
“What? I’m eighty-something. They’re arguing, so I get to say it.”
Throngs of people fill the lounge—easily sixty or seventy passengers, all looking pretty great for being over the big hill. The crowd is dressed to impress, from sharp suits to elegant cocktail dresses, and there’s enough designer jewelry in this room to stock a small boutique.
Nicolette spins on her heel and takes off, weaving through the crowd with the grace of a woman who’s made many dramatic exits.
The buffet tables line the port side of the lounge, groaning under the weight of seafood towers, charcuterie boards, and enough international cuisine to satisfy any palate.
But it’s the dessert buffet that makes me weak in the knees—chocolate fountains, fruit tarts, cream puffs stacked in pyramids, and what appears to be an entire cake shaped like the Emerald Queen herself.
Every guest looks polished to a shine, the put-together that comes from money, good tailors, and regular spa appointments.
I scan the crowd for familiar faces.
“Ransom and Wes should be along at any moment. Wes is at a briefing on the bridge, and Ransom is, well, he’s sort of at a briefing too.”
Marina raises an eyebrow. “Sort of?”
“He’s trying to convince the Maritime Security Department to beef up their presence.
” I don’t mention the ghost. No need to alarm her on day one.
Day two, maybe. I’ll pencil it in. “The stand-in Chief Security Officer is Quinn Riddle—she’s the one who investigated me after a minor incident and inadvertently had Ransom fired instead. ”
I shoot Bess and Nettie the side-eye, should they decide to highlight the fact I just said the words minor incident when it comes to my body finding habit.
Bess averts her eyes and Nettie makes a zipping motion across her lips—then locks it, then tosses the invisible key into the air and now she’s trying her level best to catch it in her mouth.
“Yikes,” Marina says. “I’m sorry about that, Trixie.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Quinn may not be a fan of mine, but right now I’m not a fan of hers either.”
Gideon spots us and swoops in with the enthusiasm that feels slightly calculated. Up close, his scarf really is exquisite—paisley in teal and gold that somehow works with the charcoal suit. He’s either a man with excellent taste or a man with excellent stylists. Possibly both.
“Ladies!” He spreads his arms. “I’m so glad you could join us. Welcome to the Second Act Society’s inaugural voyage celebration.”
“Thank you for having us,” Bess says politely.
“The pleasure is mine.” His gaze flicks to Marina and lingers a beat too long before returning to me. “Trixie, was it? What is it that you do aboard the ship?”
“I’m the art instructor. I teach art classes in all mediums.”
“How lovely.” He turns to Marina. “And you? Are you staff as well?”
“Just a passenger,” Marina says quickly and her smile fades fast. I can tell she’s not loving the attention he’s been giving to her.
Gideon studies her face again, his eyes narrowing. “I really do feel like we’ve met. Boston, perhaps? Do you spend time in Boston?”
“No.” Marina’s voice is tight enough to strain pasta through.
“Hmm.” Gideon doesn’t look convinced, but he lets it drop. “Well, make yourselves at home. There’s plenty of food, plenty of drinks, and plenty of people eager to share their second act stories.”
“What exactly do you do?” I ask him, because I’m nosy and he seems the type to enjoy talking about himself.
“Oh, a little of this, a little of that.” He waves a hand dismissively. “I run a consultancy firm—we help people transition into their next chapters. Career changes, personal reinventions, that sort of thing. It’s deeply rewarding work.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Bess says.
“It is. I get to witness people transform their lives.” He smiles, but there’s something vague about the whole explanation, as if he’s deliberately keeping the details fuzzy.
“I’ve worked with CEOs who became artists, lawyers who opened restaurants, accountants who started sailing around the world.
The possibilities are endless when you stop letting fear dictate your choices. ”
It sounds saintly. Almost too saintly. And the way he keeps glancing at Marina makes my radar ping.
Someone calls his name from across the room, and Gideon excuses himself with what looks like a forced smile.
“Well, he’s hot to trot,” Nettie says the second he’s out of earshot. “And I think he’s got a thing for you, Marina.”
“I certainly hope not,” she mutters, her eyes still narrowed in his direction.
Marina, Bess, and Nettie make a beeline for the buffet. I’m about to follow when I literally bump into Holland and Silas, the Nordic Hearth gods, near the dessert table.
“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry!” I steady myself against a chair.
“No worries at all.” Holland laughs, her honey-blonde hair catching the light. She’s breezy and warm in a flowing pink dress, while Silas stands beside her in a navy blazer, his silver-streaked hair making him look distinguished and impossibly put-together.
“I’m glad we bumped into you. I just have to know…” Holland leans in. “Is it true? Is the ship haunted?”