"What do you mean by bringing these up now?" Noor asked again, her voice thin.
Elena looked up. Her gaze drifted across the seven faces in front of her, one by one, letting the silence stretch until the air felt heavy with their anxiety.
"This is the first time you have all attended at once," Elena said smoothly. "Consider the photographs a friendly reminder. Keep them as memories to hold onto. That way, the next time one of you starts to feel... hot-headed... you can look at them and cool down. You can remember your fun little pastimes."
It won’t last more than a few days , she thought, watching them. Let them daydream. Their end won't be half as graceful as they imagine.
Around the table sat the Prominent Seven: Connor White, the nationally renowned music producer; David Finn, vice director of an international publishing house; Walter Johnson, president of a prestigious dance academy, and his wife Margaret, Secretary to the Minister of Fine Arts; Yvonne Kassev, the multi-award-winning film director; Gregory James, heir to the J&A Investment Firm; and Noor Hudson, the melancholic painter.
Elena held a leash on every one of them. If she revealed what she knew, they would rot in prison—each sentence more wretched than the last. They looked like obedient dogs now, but she knew they would bite if cornered. She had to be lenient but strict, snapping the leash only when they tried to run. She usually threw a bone to those invited once a year; now that they were all present, she had made much more... suitable preparations.
Yvonne looked down at the photo of herself holding a bloody hammer by what can only be called a human shaped mess of flesh and bones. Her eyebrows knitted in a critique. "Your photography skills are lacking, Elena," she complained. "You didn't capture the emotion. The complexity of human expression and what it reflects is crucial for a correct character study. Noor, you’re lacking in this aspect as well. How about I give you both a lesson? It would open a whole new perspective for you."
"No, thank you," Noor declined instantly. "I am quite confident in my work. A mountain of people would agree."
Elena adjusted her glasses, the frames catching the light as she remained silent, appearing to seriously consider the offer.
Walter, who looked every bit twenty years older than Margaret, coughed lightly, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening. "So... we can expect a full meal? To each their own?"
They all turned to Elena, their eyes like wolves waiting for a sheep to appear, ready to spring the moment they saw a weakness.
Elena didn't mind their posturing. She looked at Yvonne. "I’m afraid I don’t have time for a lesson. But I will give you a camera tomorrow. Take your own photos. Show me that you aren't just boasting—show me you're worth those blinding awards in your office.”
Yvonne rolled her eyes at Elena’s casual mention of the studio detail; it was another calculated display that her eyes truly were everywhere. Yvonne had only recently moved her awards from the studio lobby into her private office, yet Elena already knew.
David, whose life revolved around the literary world, leaned in. "Your latest novel was remarkably polished, Elena, especially considering you didn't hold an event last year."
David had tried repeatedly to convince her to sign with Flowing Feather , the publishing house where he worked. Her novels were becoming sensations, selling out rapidly; he believed his firm could make her soar even higher. But Elena refused to mix her art with the business of anyone in this room, no matter the potential revenue. When he had first proposed it, she had given him a look so degrading he felt like a beggar. To her, the millions in potential royalties were mere pocket change—she had enough wealth to live ten lives.
Damn rich narcissist, David thought. Though he sat at the same table, he knew he hadn't reached their echelon of wealth. He could feel their collective disdain pressing against him.
In reality, Elena would rather ask Alistair for money if she ever went penniless—an impossibility, given her years of meticulous financial planning—than deepen her ties with the Prominent Seven. She already sacrificed enough peace of mind seeing them once a year. To her, they were too problematic, too annoying, and too "rabid" to warrant another second of her time. Her own personality flaws were enough of a burden.
How dare he doubt my abilities, she thought, her gaze cold. As if I merely copy and paste these gatherings into my prose. Does he even read? How did he even find work in literature?
"This year marks the decade anniversary of our gatherings," Elena announced, her voice cutting through the room. "It will be a special occasion. As such, you will be on your best behavior. Avoid butting heads. If you notice someone stepping out of line, inform me. I will intervene." Her eyes flicked toward Margaret, who flinched under the weight of the gaze.
Then came the rules:
Zero interaction with Alistair.
Strict brevity on the phones.
All firearms must be surrendered to the Captain’s safe.
Connor tried to protest, but Elena doubled down. She didn't care if the guns were kept disassembled in their cabins; she had no intention of letting a heated quarrel between them turn into a bloodbath on her special occasion .
She stood up to leave, gathering her notebook, her pen, and the unmarked photos. As she reached the door, the sharp click of a lighter echoed in the room. She paused, her hand on the frame, and turned back with one final instruction.
"In case you’ve forgotten: absolutely no smoking wherever I set foot. And if you must smoke in your cabin, ensure you don't come within two cabins' length of me and Alistair until the stench is gone."
She stepped out, closing the door behind her. Gregory, who hadn't uttered a single word the entire time, silently snapped his lighter shut near his photo.
"Deranged lunatic," he muttered into the silence.
The preparation for departure started when the last guest arrived. On the docks, the deckhands worked in silence, hauling in the heavy, salt-crusted lines and securing the fenders. The gangplank was retracted with a rhythmic metallic groan, severing the final connection to the mainland. Below deck, the rhythmic thrum of the twin diesel engines intensified, sending a low-frequency vibration through the mahogany floorboards and into the soles of the guests' shoes.
From the wheelhouse, the Captain signaled the harbor master. With a final check of the radio room and the "all clear" from the stewards, the yacht began to move. It glided away from the pier smoothly, cutting through the glass-like water of the harbor. As the shoreline receded into a blur of distant lights, the staff moved through the corridors like ghosts, double-checking the locks on the cabin doors and ensuring every loose glass was buffered by a coaster.
By the time the open sea began to swell beneath the hull, the yacht had become a world of its own—an isolated kingdom where Elena’s rules were the only law. But in the dark, the rebels already had different plans.