The woman seemed taken aback. "Why wouldn’t you belong? You are the brother of the famous writer Elena Hudson! The one who cheered for her before anyone else. From the very first paragraphs she wrote, you listened to her naive children's stories long before she became the respected figure she is now. A woman people write to every day; a successful, brilliant artist whose words seem to dance at the tip of her pen."
Alistair was at a loss for words when the man beside him intervened. "Are you trying to make him feel at ease, or just praising yourself?"
The warm smile on Elena’s face dropped instantly. She turned to him, her voice cooling. "Oh, John. You’re here. It is... good to see you."
Noticing the intense ocular combat between them, Alistair sighed. "Will you two stop? Didn’t you say we were here to relax? Drop your childish quarrels already."
Elena offered a fresh, though clearly forced, smile. "I’m not even going to look at you. Happy?"
Her gaze softened as she turned back to her brother. "But Alistair, I really meant it, you belong by my side more than anyone. Being 'cultured' isn't defined by knowing how to string a few words together or understanding the brushstrokes of some painting, anyway. I’ve already dealt with that ignorant bast— fool , and he certainly isn't invited this time."
Alistair pushed open the heavy door of his cabin; it was nothing like the generic rooms he had stayed in last night. The soothing scent of lavender filled the air. His heavy leather trunk was nowhere to be seen, his linen jacket already swaying slightly in the cedar-lined wardrobe. On the nightstand, a copy of A Droplet in a Bucket sat perfectly squared against a silver lamp, its silk tassel carefully laid aside. It felt like home; every detail of the room fitted his preferences perfectly, down to the tea set. With the curtains drawn, he lay on the bed and soon drifted into a slumber, though his thoughts stalked him into his dreams, refusing to let go.
Elena reached for the glass of juice beside her and took a sip. Lying under the sunbrella, she glanced at John, who was staring at his glass of water before looking back at her, clearly questioning her hospitality.
"How is he feeling lately?" she asked.
"Fine," John said simply.
With Alistair absent, Elena dropped all pretense. "As his doctor, I expect a detailed response, not an absentminded one. Or are you finally admitting your incompetence?"
He chuckled. "Showing your fangs, are you? Well, as you said, I am his doctor. I should respect the confidence he has in me to keep the details of his condition private."
Her eyes were like daggers, but he offered nothing more.
"I followed his wishes regarding keeping you on," she said coldly, "but I doubt he’ll remain of that opinion for long. I already have a list of more accomplished, trusted heart surgeons and doctors ready. I’ll give it to him to reconsider."
"Good luck changing his mind."
Elena gave a sharp, cold laugh. "Oh, I don’t need luck. I know him." She gave a knowing look, wondering in silence if Alistair’s compassionate, almost naive nature came from a desire to gather merits before a short life ended—or perhaps to avoid the Hudsons in the afterlife.
"He is decisive," she continued. "Don’t think that by building a friendship with him you’ll escape the finality of his rock-hard decisions."
"Wow, you really do hold a grudge," John replied. "All I did was provide medical assistance. Surgery was the best option for his condition at the time. You make it sound as if I’m leeching off him. I wasn’t even the lead surgeon; I gained nothing from it."
"You’re a rat," she snapped. "And the second you show your tail, I’m cutting it off and gifting it to him. Enjoy his friendship while you can."
She slammed her glass onto the table, the sharp crack echoing as she stood and walked away to avoid committing something heinous.
Elena had been at odds with John from the moment they met. She vaguely sensed his ulterior motives, but Alistair had always ignored her warnings. For two years, she had maintained a distant, friendly facade, waiting for him to slip up. But last year, in the middle of publishing her new thriller and preparing for a major gathering, she’d had to drop everything and travel to Alistair’s side. In that moment, she had nearly silenced John for eternity—sparing him only because he might still have one final, redeeming use.
Alistair’s heart problems had begun in his early teens. He had always followed a conservative path: steady medication and only the most minimally invasive procedures when absolutely necessary. With a stable routine and professionals managing his inherited shares and properties, he lived a life of low physical burden. Hearing about a major surgery from a stranger had sent Elena into a cold fury.
Alistair was nearly thirty; he had reached this age without severe complications. His previous doctors all confirmed that if he maintained his lifestyle, his prognosis was positive. Then John arrived. He had convinced Alistair to undergo a surgery that was as much a gamble as it was a cure. With the technology still unproven and little research on the long-term effects of the necessary post-operative drugs, Alistair could have died on that table—all because of John's persuasion.
A few minutes before lunch, Elena left her cabin and knocked on the door opposite hers. No answer came, even after she called Alistair’s name. She pushed the door open, and the light from the corridor spilled inside, just enough to outline a restless figure on the bed.
She clicked on the lights and approached quickly. Alistair’s eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed as his head thrashed against the pillow. Elena reached out and shook him slightly. "Alistair? Alistair, wake up!"
His eyes snapped open, clouded with a thick fog of disorientation. His fingers clamped around her wrist like shackles, his breath coming in jagged gasps as he struggled to recognize her. "Elen?"
"It’s me. Are you okay? Should I call John?"
"I just... I had a nightmare," he managed, his grip loosening as his heart rate began to settle. "Why are you here?"
"It’s lunchtime. I—" She stopped abruptly. Her eyes fell on the nightstand, landing on the book squared against the silver lamp. "Isn't this mine? Why is it here?"
In every guest cabin, a collection of the books she had published over the last decade had been laid out—one thriller or mystery for every year. A Droplet in a Bucket was her ninth. However, she had given the staff strict instructions for Alistair’s room: no books. He needed to avoid significant emotional fluctuations, and her writing was far too visceral, the crimes too detailed for the faint of heart. Besides, he had never been a reader of her work since he knows well that his pulse can't handle her prose.