The captain handled the confiscated weapons as if they were mere toys. There were five in total, varying in weight and caliber, yet he gripped each with a practiced, chilling familiarity. In the flickering light of his cabin, he expertly emptied the chambers and cycled the actions, listening to the mechanical clicks over the low hum of the engines.
Once satisfied, he tossed them into his floor safe. He didn’t bother tagging them with the owners' names or recording a single entry in the ship’s log. After the heavy door hissed shut, the Captain looped the safe key onto a chain around his neck. If anyone wanted their "toys" back, they would have to come through him.
The moment he touched those firearms, they became his. The previous owners should have been more worried about leaving the yacht alive—too many people were hunting them, yet they remained blissfully unaware of the approaching danger.
It was a pity Elena hadn’t handed over her own weapon. She carried a "toy" he had been eyeing for years, a rare model he couldn't find anywhere. He wondered if she might eventually surrender it to him as a bonus for his services.
At 8:30 PM, dinner was served. The dining salon was arranged with tables of varying sizes, allowing for strategic seating. Alistair sat with John and Elena, while the "Prominent Seven" divided themselves into a women’s table and a men’s table.
As for the creative guests, they herded together, except for the Maurices, who sat apart at a small table for two.
Yvonne, elegantly slicing through her Filet of Sole à la Bonne Femme, glanced at Margaret’s bare throat. "You aren't wearing your necklace tonight? Are you hiding it from me? I only asked for a look last time; it’s not as if I wouldn’t give it back."
Margaret’s hand flew to her empty neck. She had changed into a V-neck black dress but kept her accessories simple, wearing only a brooch. She could still feel the phantom pressure with which Elena was encircling her throat. Pouting, she took her frustration out on the dead fish on her plate, stabbing it with her fork as if she were piercing Elena herself.
"Elena got rid of it," Margaret muttered.
Noor, who was trying to discreetly cover her ears with her hair, was caught mid-movement. Yvonne turned toward her instantly. "Lovely earrings. Is that emerald? Such a vivid green."
Yvonne wasn't just greedy; she was a predator of beautiful things. She lived for "borrowing" items and "losing" them, or simply taking them and denying it to the owner's face. Noor’s heart still ached over a pearl-inlaid seashell clutch that had mysteriously vanished at a party a year ago.
Noor had been in a rush to change and unfortunately had grabbed the first pair she found. She kept her voice flat, desperate to hide the fact that the earrings were an heirloom. "I think they’re just sapphire," she lied. "I picked them up from a clearance shop on my way here. What can I say? I have a soft heart for unwanted things." She quickly pivoted the conversation. "Margaret, do you no longer value your eyeballs ? Your gaze is burning a hole in that man."
"What are you talking about?" Margaret snapped. "I’m not even looking at their table. It’s that woman. Her husband is sitting right in front of her, yet she keeps stealing glances at Ali- Mr. Hudson. Shameless. Is Elena blind? Can't she see that woman eyeing her beloved brother?"
Yvonne chuckled. "Are you describing yourself? Your husband is sitting mere feets away and you’re throwing dirt on her. What? Does the sting of that night still burn?"
Noor finally realized who the woman was—the one with the soft features and the fragile look sitting at the table for two. It was “that” woman from the gathering Margaret had since stopped attending. Noor hadn't been there that year, but she had heard all about it from David. A man with a deep inferiority complex, David lived to drag others down, and he had described the chaos of that night with far too much enthusiasm.
On the adjacent table, seating the remainder of the Prominent Seven, Walter sat in indifference. Having navigated several affairs of his own, he couldn't care less about his wife’s infidelity—save for the inconvenience of her sudden pregnancy. Had it continued, he would have become the laughingstock of the circuit. He took a slow sip of the aged vintage; the liquid gold cut through the richness of the butter and cream on his palate, offering a sharp minerality.
He was lowering his glass when a dull thud vibrated through the table. Walter turned toward the disturbance to his left.
Connor, a man of poor manners, had just shoved the stewardess. The girl, clearly green to service, had approached from the left to refill his glass. Connor snarled, snatching the bottle from her hands. He sloppily filled his wide tulip glass to the rim before slamming the bottle down onto the mahogany.
The stewardess stood frozen, eyes downcast, likely on the verge of tears. When she hesitantly reached out to return the bottle to the silver ice bucket, Connor’s hand clamped around the neck of the bottle. Without looking up, he barked:
"Are you dense? You wait until the glass is bone-dry to show up, and now you want the bottle back? Am I expected to wait for your permission every time I want a drop of champagne?"
The girl recoiled as if scorched. Walter offered a thin smile. "You may go," he said smoothly. "He’s feeling a bit... under the weather. Do excuse him."
The stewardess kept her head bowed as she retreated. As she turned, the light fell on her eyes—no sign of tears or redness, but the cold, reflective stillness of the deep water churning beneath the hull.
David, sitting opposite Connor, chuckled with a cold sense of superiority.
"Better to delay your 'needs' for a few days, Connor," David warned. "If you don't keep your head clear, I’m sure someone would be more than happy to smash that bottle over your skull to wake you up."
Connor’s eyes instinctively darted toward Elena. She was already boring a hole through him with a stinging glare. She whispered a few sharp instructions to a senior steward who was presenting a fresh vintage to her.
A moment later, the senior steward approached their table with silent efficiency. A fresh bottle was placed in the bucket, and the half-empty one was whisked away—along with the glass Connor had desperately gulped down the moment he realized Elena was watching.
The table stayed quiet until dessert was served, it was Peach Melba. Gregory scooped a spoonful, and the brief metallic chill on his tongue masked all flavors for what felt like an eternity before the sharp, aggressive acidity kicked in. The sweetness was late and unrewarding. He put down the spoon and decided to ask, "How sure are you all the photos won't be leaked?" Elena had been casually looking at a dozen earlier. What if someone was passing and she was far too focused in what she calls studying to notice, and risk the urgent need of ‘cleaning’.
He spoke with a lisp; he was self-conscious and spoke only when necessary. Seeing no one else question the safety of their secrets, he felt he had to step in.
Elena used a fruit knife to stab the bruised flesh of the skinless peach sitting atop the raspberry sauce scarred vanilla ice cream. She put the blade down, welcoming the cold of the spoon she held that added to the ceremony of the dessert. "Quiet the artist is the chef," she smiled, surprised by the unexpected artistic touch.