7. 7
seven
Sarah
The linen closet yields a navy-blue blanket with red embroidered stitching that reads Fischer Dives, LLC across the bottom corner.
The plush material does nothing to quell my churning stomach.
The hallway stretches before me, leading to the man who is demanding me to his kingdom.
A man who claims sanity, but the jury is still out on that front.
My mind spins on the walk back to the living room, words caught somewhere behind my teeth. The blanket is folded carefully and set on the coffee table in front of him.
I’d spent the entire morning with Leo, working on the expedition report. It wasn’t until I glanced at the clock on my oven and saw it was already past four in the afternoon that I realized how much time had slipped away after the crazy man showed up.
Exhaustion hits me all at once. I’m not hungry. I’m definitely not in the mood to talk. All I want now is to retreat to my room and be alone for the rest of the evening.
He grabs a throw pillow from the couch and unfolds the blanket. I watch him carefully, anxiety twisting my gut. Unsure if it is from nervousness or fright.
As I turn to leave, his voice cuts through the silence, calm and direct. “Is this your way of asking me to stay for the night?”
I pause, turning to meet his gaze. “Well, no, actually. But would you leave if I asked?”
“No,” he replies, without missing a beat. His face is unreadable. “I cannot trust that you will leave with me in the morning if I do not stay.”
The nerves on this guy. Trust me? How do I know I can trust him?
I don’t even know this man—except that he is clearly deranged—and now I’m letting him sleep on my couch?
I’ve officially lost it. And yet . . . I can’t shake this feeling.
It’s not just a feeling that I’m meant to be near him. No, more like a feeling to be with him.
Holy shit, I need sleep.
Between the rift during the dive yesterday, the footage Leo showed me, this stranger showing up, and the fact that I didn’t sleep much last night, I’m barely functioning. My brain is a foggy mess of adrenaline and confusion.
“Well, since you aren’t really giving me much of a choice, I’ll be in my room.” I pause for a breath, then add, “and I’ll be locking the door.”
I don’t wait for a response, making a beeline for my room, one step shy of a full-on sprint. This entire situation is insane, and I need to get as far away from him as possible, at least until morning forces me back into his presence.
The door shuts behind me and I lock it, as promised.
Trying to quiet my mind, I pace the floor.
It’s not working. Stopping in front of the mirror that sits atop my vanity, I pull out the small bench, and sit, facing the mirror.
It’s a deep, rich mahogany piece I found at an auction a few years ago, a vintage treasure topped with an oval mirror adorned with delicate hand-carved roses and petals.
The day I got it, I felt like I’d won the lottery.
I had only brought five hundred dollars with me, not expecting much, and walked away with not just the vanity, but a full bedroom set.
Vintage pieces have always fascinated me because they carry untold stories, but decorating the rest of my home with them felt too personal.
So I kept the vintage look confined to my bedroom.
Here, surrounded by matching nightstands, a dresser, a beautiful bed frame, and the aforementioned vanity, I feel safe.
Like I’m grounded in something known, not swallowed up by whatever the hell is going to happen outside my bedroom door tomorrow morning.
The moment I see my reflection in the mirror, I know sleep will take me fast once I lie down.
The dark circles under my eyes are the worst they’ve been in a long time.
And yet . . . my red hair still catches the light, my skin still pale and even, my green eyes still vivid.
But I feel different, yet somehow more alive than I’ve ever felt.
And now this ocean guy wants me to just .
. . leave? Granted, I will return, eventually.
But something tugs at the back of my thoughts, warning me to be cautious.
Maybe it’s my conscience. Maybe . . . I still have an ounce of survival left, and the lack of oxygen from so many dives hasn’t completely ruined my brain.
No, I need a plan. Scratch that. I need a couple of plans, in case one falls through. I’m not about to let myself be dragged into something blind. I need to mentally prepare for what I am getting into.
After several minutes of going through my options, I settle on one thing I know I can do right now. I grab my work phone, given I no longer have my personal one—fucking psychotic asshole—and dial Leo’s number, pressing it to my ear, hoping he picks up fast.
Leo answers on the second ring. “Hey, Fishy. Why are you calling me from your work phone? Had any fun with the random sexy guy yet?” he asks smugly. I can practically see the grin stretching across his face.
“Yeah, definitely not gonna happen,” I reply dryly. “He broke my phone in half . . . with his hands.”
“Oh, really? Sexy and strong. Great combo.” His laughter resonates through the phone.
“Ignoring that comment,” I state. “I need some help, if you’re up for it.”
“If it involves him, I’ll help with anything,” he says, but I catch the note of eagerness in his words.
“Okay, I’m just gonna ignore that comment too,” I mutter. “I need help gathering some materials. And I’m going to be borrowing the yacht for a few weeks.”
There’s a pause on the line, just long enough for concern to start creeping in.
“Wait, what? Sarah, what’s going on?” His voice sharpens, the teasing edge gone. Now he just sounds worried.
I close my eyes and breathe out slowly, guilt curling in my chest like smoke. I hate this, hate holding back from him. Leo’s been with me through everything, and now I’m keeping this massive secret from him.
How do I explain any of this when I can’t make sense of it?
None of it feels solid. It’s too freakish, too impossible, like I’ve slipped sideways into some dream I can’t wake up from.
And him . . . I can’t even bring myself to say his name.
Not yet. Saying it feels too close to admitting any of this is actually happening.
Is any of this truly happening? Or am I stuck in some weird limbo?
Leo deserves answers rooted in reality. So I do what I can. I give him the best version of reality I’m capable of offering right now.
“Alright, I’m gonna give it to you straight, Leo,” I say, praying he believes what I’m about to tell him.
“You’re my best friend. I know you care about me a lot, and I hope you know the feeling’s mutual.
” I pause, swallowing the lump forming in my throat.
“After what happened yesterday, I haven’t felt the same.
And ever since that guy showed up, everything’s been even more unclear.
So, I’m taking your advice. I’m getting help.
Just . . . not the kind you were thinking. ”
I wait for him to cut in, some sarcastic jab, or even a quiet, Are you okay? But the line stays silent.
So I go on. “I’m going to take the yacht for a few weeks.
Maybe longer. I need time alone—to think, to reflect.
And when I feel like I’ve found some clarity—or when I’m ready to talk about what happened yesterday in full detail, then I’ll come back.
I don’t want you to worry. But I do need you to manage the company while I’m gone.
I’ll send over the paperwork and get my lawyer to handle the rest.”
Leo’s voice cracks just slightly as he speaks. “Why does this sound like it’s the last time I’ll see you?”
His words gut me. I hear it closely. The falter in his breath, the way he’s holding something back. Leo, who laughs through chaos and teases his way through tension, now sounds like he might break. And it’s because of me.
My heart aches. I want to tell him everything. I want to spill it all: the magic, the prophecy, the man who claims he came from the sea. But how do I say it without sounding unhinged? Without understanding it fully myself?
“It won’t be the last time you hear from me,” I admit softly. “But . . . it might be a while.”
A single tear escapes and trails down my cheek.
Leo has been there for me from the beginning—from college, from late-night cram sessions and coffee-fueled dives. He stuck around even when I told him I didn’t need friends, just success. And he responded with, ‘Well, I’ll be the best in Best Friend,’ like it was the simplest solution in the world.
I laughed so hard at that. And he’s been my rock ever since. Not telling him the truth now feels like betrayal. But telling him too soon might be worse. Maybe one day, when this all makes sense . . . I can tell him.
“Leo, just promise me you’ll do everything I would do, and more, for my dream,” I say, pouring every ounce of love I have for him into the words. “But also promise me you’ll add some Leo flair to it.”
“I promise, Fishy. I know we’ll see each other again,” he replies, his voice calm, like he’s staring straight into the future. “But when we do, you’d better not have a new best friend.”
We say our goodbyes and hang up.
Next step? Tackle the mountain of paperwork to give Leo everything he needs to run my company while I’m gone. Notaries, letters, power of attorney . . . so much paperwork.
I groan and roll my eyes. “I wonder if the underwater kingdom has to deal with this crap,” I mutter, already imagining the answer.
I huff out a soft laugh. Doubtful they have paper underwater, Sarah.
After several exhausting hours, I finish all the documents required for my temporary leave of absence and send digital copies to my lawyers, making sure to CC Leo and my secretary at the lab.