The sun glints off the water so brightly it's as if the sea is trying to blind me—so I won't think too much.
The pier with its private yachts looks like a display window of other people's lives: snow-white hulls, chrome, ropes, the smell of salt and money. Giselle and I step out of the taxi.
"So," Giselle whispers, "if we're about to be killed, at least let it be beautiful."
"Shut up," I smile. "Let's go."
Sophia is already on board. She stands there with the confidence of someone who captains her own world and waves us over.
"Victoria! Giselle! Come up!"
We exchange a look.
We smile—slightly tense, slightly defiant.
And climb aboard.
On deck, Sophia receives us like a hostess accustomed to admiration. I hand her a bouquet.
"These are for you. Our gift."
"Thank you, my friends," she says, accepting the flowers. "Come on, I'll show you the yacht."
We start at the stern and move up to the bridge. Everything is perfectly clean, calibrated, sterile. There's no crew—the yacht isn't leaving today. Too private a meeting, I think, and the realization prickles my nerves.
We go down to the galley.
The chef and assistants are preparing lunch—their movements precise, rehearsed. Sophia stops, surveys the process as if she's administering an exam.
"I like to keep an eye on everything," she says calmly. "Things have to be done right."
I catch Giselle's glance.
We're both slightly taken aback.
Control is her form of pleasure, flashes through my mind.
We step out to starboard.
Open sea. Seabirds. A sense of space that makes you want to exhale and, for at least a minute, stop being on guard.
We move to the bow.
And then Sophia suddenly runs ahead, light as a girl, hops onto the rail, throws her arms wide, and shouts,
"I'm free as a bird!"
Giselle and I exchange a look.
"Titanic," Giselle whispers.
"Rich people," I whisper back.
Sophia is strange. But maybe the rich really do have their own quirks.
I step closer. Now the three of us stand together, staring into the distance—where the sea melts into the sky.
"What do you dream of, Victoria?" Sophia asks suddenly.
The question sounds unexpectedly intimate.
"To be successful… and loved," I answer without hesitation.
"And to be a good mother," Giselle adds at once.
Sophia turns to her.
"Do you have a boyfriend?"
"Yes. Finn Monroe. Third year at university. From a wealthy family."
"And if you break up?" Sophia continues, without blinking.
Giselle frowns.
"It would break my heart."
"Then you've become dependent and are losing your clarity," Sophia concludes calmly.
I wince.
"And I love Andre differently," she goes on.
"How so?" I can't help asking.
"The way a scientist loves an object of study," Sophia says thoughtfully. "Hard. Mysterious. Complicated. But incredibly fascinating."
A shiver runs through me.
"I don't know that kind of feeling," I admit.
Sophia turns her gaze on me. Sharp. Piercing.
"And you, Victoria…" She pauses. "You're in love with Christian Grayson. I noticed it back at the Angel Club."
My heart skips a beat.
"What kind of relationship do you have?"
"We're getting closer," I answer carefully. "Before he becomes… unreachable to me."
Sophia suddenly smiles—wide, almost triumphant.
"There you go." She says it as if she's made the discovery of the century. "Christian is playing with you too. That's why you felt drawn to him."
Cynical. Cold. Precise.
"I… hadn't thought of it that way," I feel uneasy.
Giselle senses it immediately.
"Let's have some fun!" she shouts, touching Sophia's shoulder. "Tag—you're it!"
And she takes off.
I laugh—too loudly—and run along the rail toward the stern. The wind tangles my hair, my skirt gets in the way, but I don't care. I run as if I could outrun my thoughts.
"Hey!" Sophia shouts and runs after me.
At the stern she catches me, grabs my wrist, and passes on the "tag." We squeal, laugh, race around the yacht like little girls, remembering childhood—that rare time when everything was simple.
But somewhere deep inside, I know:
this day,
this conversation,
and this yacht—
will remind me of themselves again.
And possibly very soon.
**
The games end abruptly—like music being cut off in a club when the lights come on too early.
We pull ourselves together almost in sync, as if following an unspoken protocol. Hair—back. Lipstick—touched up. Breathing—steady. We're no longer girls running around a yacht. We're aristocrats—or at least doing our very best to look like them.
We sit down at the laid table.
A white tablecloth without a single crease. Crystal. Silver cutlery, pleasantly cold against the fingers. The aroma is subtle, complex, promising. Everything here screams money—but in a whisper.
The courses begin to arrive.
"I'm very glad we're friends now," Sophia says.
She's flushed from the games, eyes bright, cheeks warm—too alive for this sterile luxury. There's something dangerous in her now: a mix of sincerity and predatory confidence.
"I'm glad too," I reply, and catch myself meaning it.
"And I'm glad we're friends as well," Giselle adds at once, lifting her glass.
We clink glasses. The ring of crystal sounds like a seal on a contract none of us bothered to read all the way through.
I taste the food.
And freeze.
It's… exquisite. Or maybe I'm just starving—for life, for emotion, for risk. Either way, this is clearly not a university cafeteria. Every bite knows its worth and has no intention of apologizing for it.
So this is how people eat when they don't doubt tomorrow, I think.
Sophia takes a sip of her drink, gazes into the distance, and then, as if in passing, says,
"I think my Andre is cold toward me."
I look up.
There it is.
"Just like your Christian is with you, Victoria," she adds softly, precisely.
A strike—clean, calculated.
"He's not exactly cold," I answer, keeping my voice even. "He's just not obsessed with me. But we are fairly close."
Too close to be calm. Too far to be sure.
Sophia smiles with the corner of her mouth.
"And my Andre will be my husband in three months," she says as a nonnegotiable fact. "And by then, he needs to stop looking at other women."
A pause.
"And how do you plan to do that?" Giselle asks carefully.
Sophia leans forward. Light plays across her collarbones. She looks almost intimate—and that's more frightening than if she were shouting.
"You have to break his heart."
Silence.
The fork in my hand freezes.
"How?" I ask, already sensing I won't like the answer.
"With jealousy," Sophia says slowly, savoring the word. Like a seasoned player explaining the rules to a beginner.
And she looks straight at me.
"My Andre is clearly interested in you, Victoria. And you work with him at his father's company—Solaris Dominion Group. Play along. The same way your Christian plays with you. Closer—farther. Warmer—colder."
She makes a small, almost imperceptible gesture, as if tugging invisible strings of a puppet.
"He'll lose his head. And then you'll leave him."
Something tightens inside me.
"That's when I bring him to our wedding," she continues, smiling. "And he'll be completely ready to love me."
"That sounds terrifying," Giselle blurts out.
I nod.
"And why would I do this?" I ask, no longer hiding my disgust.
Sophia doesn't rush to answer. She takes my hand. Her fingers are warm. Too confident. Too calm. Like a boa constrictor that knows its prey isn't going anywhere.
"You want to be with Christian," she says quietly. "By flirting with Andre, you'll make Christian jealous. Make him want to fight for you. That's how he'll become yours."
My heart starts beating faster.
"And if he doesn't fight?" I ask. "If he just… walks away?"
Sophia shrugs.
"Then, Victoria, you'll grow closer to Christian anyway. And you'll explain the flirting with Andre as work-related. For your career."
For your life, I hear between the lines.
"That's a strange proposal, Sophia," I say slowly. "It's hard for me to agree to this."
She leans in even closer.
"And what if I offer to pay for a year of your university tuition?"
The world tilts slightly.
"You'll continue your studies. Gain experience with serious men," her voice is almost tender. "We need to grow up, Victoria. And make the right decisions."
My mind explodes.
Christian's words flare before my eyes. His gaze. His request. He wants me to gather information on Solaris Dominion Group through working with Andre.
Everyone wants the same thing from me.
Interaction.
Games.
Manipulation.
Reason screams danger.
But somewhere deep—too deep—a predator's thrill ignites. Hot. Forbidden. Intoxicating.
Sophia is right.
The game is the best entertainment life has to offer.
The die is cast.
The Rubicon is crossed.
And I still don't know
which of us will drown first.