Elena's eyes opened at the sound of Marta's voice, an unusual interruption through the morning air. She lay still for a moment, regaining herself. The lamp she'd fallen asleep under was still burning, a pale ghost in the daylight bleeding through the curtains.

Her phone screen glowed from where she'd dropped it beside her hand. Three percent battery left. The last photo she'd been staring at — a page of Liam's coded notebook — was still open, the columns of numbers and symbols burned into her retinas.

She'd tried everything. Searching names. Matching dates. Comparing symbols. Nothing connected. The notebook wasn't written to be understood by someone looking from the outside. It was written for Liam.

Elena pushed herself upright, the sheets slipping away as she narrowed her eyes at the image. Two names stood out among the countless entries scattered across the notebook.

Stern Inc.
Valmont Biologics.

They were the only recognizable threads she had managed to pull from the entire mess. Stern Inc. was the only name that felt familiar—a company she had heard of before. Everything else was a confusing web of dates, times, and symbols that might as well have been written in a language she had never learned.

She had spent more than an hour the previous night digging into both companies, searching for anything that felt out of place.

She found nothing.

Stern Inc. was a major corporation based in New Haven, the capital of Aurelia, with its reach extending into countless industries across the region. Valmont Biologics was equally established, overseeing agricultural operations, orchards, fisheries, and food production throughout the South.

On the surface, both companies appeared legitimate. Successful. Untouchable.

Yet the more Elena uncovered, the harder it became to ignore the feeling that there was something hidden beneath the surface.

And Thorn Holdings was beginning to look like far more than just a management company.

"¡Más rápido!" Marta's voice again, sharp and demanding. "¿Quieres que se mueran de hambre?!"

Elena swung her legs over the edge of the bed and crossed to the window. Below, a small army of staff was moving boxes and coolers down the path toward the docks. Marta stood at the center of it all, a clipboard in one hand and the other waving like a conductor commanding an orchestra.

Today. The trip was today.

She'd known it was coming. She'd had two days to find answers. And she'd spent both of them getting nowhere, chasing a code she couldn't crack, while the truth about Liam Thorn sat in her chest like a stone she couldn't swallow.

She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes until she saw stars.

Get up. Get ready. You don't have time to fall apart yet.

The shower was quick — hot water that did nothing to untie the knots in her shoulders. She dressed in the simplest thing she could find: a pair of cutoff shorts, a loose white tank top, sandals. Practical. Cool. Nothing that said I spent all night trying to figure out how to destroy you.

Her duffle bag sat open on the floor, already packed. She'd prepared it last night between failed attempts at cracking the code. She had her outfits. A swimsuit. Toiletries. A book she planned to read. She slung it over her shoulder, the weight settling against her hip, and took one last look around the room before heading for the door.

The hallway was quiet. The shouting from outside was muffled here, absorbed by the thick walls and the carpet runner. She made her way down the stairs. The dining hall was empty, the long table bare, the morning light glowing through the windows.

She pushed through the back door and stepped outside.

The air hit her—salt, the green scent of freshly cut grass, and a faint trace of diesel. The lake stretched beyond the dock, flat and silver beneath the morning sun. The Briar Rose bobbed gently at her mooring; men were loading up crates onto the boat. She did not see Liam among them.

Marta stood at the top of the path, clipboard still in hand, her dark hair escaping from a messy bun.

"Elena." Marta looked up, and her face softened. "You're awake. Good. I was going to send someone to shake you."

"The shouting did the job." Elena smiled despite herself. "What is all this?"

"Food and supplies." Marta gestured at the boxes. "For the trip. Do you know how hard it is to stock a boat for a week when the man you're stocking for has the palate of a gourmand and the patience of a toddler?"

"I can imagine."

"He wanted three types of cheese. Three. For a week on a boat." Marta shook her head, but there was warmth in it. "I told him he could have two and be grateful."

Elena laughed, and it felt strange in her throat, like a muscle she hadn't used in days.

"I'm going to have no one to appreciate my food while you're gone." Marta's voice dropped, and for a moment she looked almost vulnerable. "He eats like he's fueling a machine. No savoring. No pleasure. Just fuel." She met Elena's eyes. "You eat like you mean it. Like you taste every bite."

The words landed somewhere deep in Elena's chest. "I'll be back before you know it."

"You'd better be." Marta's gaze lingered on her for a beat longer than necessary, and Elena wondered what expression had crossed her face. Then the older woman clapped her hands together and turned back to her clipboard. "Now go. He's been checking his watch every five minutes. Bad for his blood pressure."

Elena adjusted the strap of her duffle and started down the path toward the dock.

The wooden planks creaked under her sandals. The lake lapped against the pylons, a steady liquid rhythm that seemed to slow time. With every step, the boat felt less like a destination and more like a week alone with Liam Thorn. She found herself studying everything except the man waiting aboard—the faded lettering on the hull, the neatly coiled ropes, the way the morning light caught the cabin windows.

Liam turned as she approached.

And Elena stopped breathing.

He wasn't in his usual suit. No tie. No pressed shirt. No polished shoes. Instead, he wore cream-colored swim trunks that hung low on his hips. The shirt — she had to look twice to believe it — was an aloha shirt. Bright patterns of hibiscus and palm leaves against a white background, the first few buttons undone, revealing a strip of his chest that she absolutely should not stare at.

She stared at it.

The sun caught his shoulders, the line of his collarbone, the dark hair that traced down his sternum and disappeared beneath the fabric. He looked — there was no other word for it — human. Less like a man who owned boardrooms and more like an everyday man who planned to go on his boat for a pleasure trip and not just for appearances.

"You're early." His voice carried easily across the water, warm with the morning breeze.

Elena finally managed to drag her eyes from his shirt. "I..."

She hesitated before a small, incredulous smile escaped her.

"I was actually going to ask what happened to your suit."

Liam looked down at the aloha shirt.

"It's at the dry cleaner."

Elena frowned. He held the expression for another second before the corner of his mouth lifted.

"...I'm kidding."

The answer came so dryly that it took her a second to realize he'd made a joke. She blinked, a surprised laugh escaping before she could stop it.

"I wasn't expecting that."

Liam rubbed the back of his neck, almost sheepish.

"Neither was I."

He looked almost surprised he'd managed it himself.

She stepped onto the boat, the deck shifting slightly under her weight. Up close, she could smell him—salt and something herbal, like sun-warmed skin and the faint musk of his cologne. Or maybe that was just the lake air playing tricks on her.

"Your bag goes below deck." He nodded toward the cabin door.

Before she could ask anything else, one of the workers called his name from the dock. Liam glanced back, answered with a quick nod, then turned his attention to the last of the supplies being loaded.

Elena didn't ask questions. She ducked through the doorway and descended the short set of stairs into the belly of the boat.

The galley was compact but clean: a two-burner stove, a small sink, and a wooden table bolted to the floor with bench seating on either side. A narrow passage continued forward, while another doorway disappeared aft. She barely glanced that way. The forward cabin looked like the obvious place to leave her bag, so she headed toward it instead.

She crossed through the seating area and pushed through the door at the forward end of the galley.

A single bed dominated the sleeping quarters.

It was large — a queen, maybe, or something close to it — taking up nearly the entire space. A standing cupboard stood against one wall, its doors closed. A small porthole above the bed let in a circle of light, illuminating the rumpled sheets and the single flat pillow. The mattress was thick, the bedding a soft cream color that looked expensive.

One bed.

Elena stared at it longer than she meant to. The reality of the situation settled slowly — seven days, one boat, one bed, with Liam Thorn. She hated that her first reaction wasn't anger. She hated even more that some quiet part of her remembered every moment he'd been gentle with her, every time he'd protected her, every glimpse of the man beneath the armor he'd spent years building.

She closed the cupboard harder than necessary.

She wasn't here to understand Liam Thorn. She was here to uncover the truth.

She opened the cupboard. Empty shelves. She placed her bag on the top one and closed the door, her hand lingering on the handle.

It's large, she told herself. You could keep to your side. He could keep to his. It didn't have to mean anything.

But even as she thought it, she knew it was a lie. Nothing with Liam Thorn was ever that simple.

She turned and looked at the bed again. The sheets were mussed, as if someone had already slept in them — or as if someone had deliberately made them look that way. She couldn't tell which would be worse: the intimacy of his presence already imprinted on the fabric, or the calculation of setting a scene.

Behind her, she heard footsteps on the deck above, then the heavy thud of more supplies being loaded. Voices called back and forth — Marta's sharp instructions, a younger man's responses, the low rumble of Liam's voice cutting through the rest.

Elena took a breath. Then another.

She could do this. She had to do this. If she wanted proof — if she wanted to find out what he'd done to Marco, to her company, to her life — she had to stay close. She had to play the role he'd assigned her: the reluctant companion, the woman who didn't know the truth.

She ran her fingers along the edge of the cupboard door, feeling the smooth wood under her skin.

She just had to survive the week first.

Another breath. She smoothed her tank top, ran a hand through her hair, and turned toward the stairs.

Time to play the part.

Her hand found the railing as she climbed back up into the morning light. The sun struck her full in the face, warm and merciless, and she had to blink against it as her eyes adjusted. The deck had transformed in the few minutes she'd been below — boxes were stacked against the cabin wall, a cooler sat secured near the helm, and a coil of rope had been neatly looped over a cleat.

Liam stood at the stern, one hand resting on the polished wood of the railing, his back to her. The aloha shirt hung loose on his shoulders, the fabric moving in the breeze, and she caught herself watching the way the light played across the muscles of his arms. He looked different out here. Softer. Or maybe that was just the context — the lake, the boat, the absence of polished floors and oil paintings.

Liam turned, and the easy warmth from the joke was gone, smoothed over by the familiar mask of command. His eyes found hers, serious and direct, the blue cutting through the morning glare. "We're ready to leave."

Elena nodded, not trusting her voice. She moved to the side of the boat as Presley appeared on the dock, his peppered hair catching the light, his butler's suit exchanged for a simple white shirt and dark slacks. He moved with practiced efficiency, unlooping the mooring lines from the cleats and tossing them aboard. One of the younger workers caught them, coiled them neatly. Presley gave Liam a short nod. "All secure, sir."

Liam didn't answer. He crossed to the helm, his sandals silent on the deck, and pressed a button. The engine rumbled to life beneath them, a low vibration that traveled through the soles of Elena's feet. The Briar Rose eased away from the dock, the gap of water widening, and Presley receded into a smaller figure, then a speck, as the boat glided out into the open water.

Elena stood at the railing, watching the manor shrink. The stone walls, the manicured lawn, the dock—all of it folding into the green hillside. She tried to swallow the knot in her throat. There was no jumping off now. No running back to the house, no calling Lisa, no hiding in her room with the coded photos. She was here. On his boat. Heading into a week of nothing but lake and Liam Thorn. Her thumb pressed into the metal rail until the edge bit.

The boat cut a smooth path across the surface, the engine a steady drone beneath the slap of water against the hull. The shoreline slid past—trees, a rocky outcrop, a lone bird perched on a half-submerged log.

They rounded a bend, and the manor disappeared behind a wall of pines. The lake opened wider ahead, and something in Elena's chest tightened. She turned to Liam, who stood at the helm with one hand resting on the wheel, his aloha shirt billowing in the breeze.

"So," she said, trying to keep her voice light, "what's the plan? A different cove every night? Anchor somewhere and stare at the stars?"

Liam glanced at her, a flicker of something—amusement? Confusion?—passing over his face. "What do you mean?"

"The week." She gestured at the expanse of water around them. "You said we would be gone for a week. I'm just wondering where we're going to spend it on this lake."

He looked at her for a long moment, then the corner of his mouth twitched. "We're not staying in the bay."

Elena frowned. "The bay?"

He lifted his chin, pointing past the bow. She followed his gaze. The lake stretched ahead, but at the far edge, where the water met the sky, there was a break in the shoreline—a gap where the land fell away on both sides.

"This is not a lake…" she said slowly.

"It's a bay." Liam's voice was flat. "Leads to the sea."

The sea. Elena's stomach dropped. She stared at the gap, the open water beyond, and the scale of it hit her all at once. A lake she could swim across—maybe not easily, but the shore was always visible. A bay leading to the sea meant miles of open water. No land in sight. No easy way back. No distractions from the questions she had been carrying with her for weeks.

The boat pushed forward, the engine hum steady, and the gap in the shoreline grew closer. Elena felt the last thread of control slip away, replaced by a cold, creeping dread. She was about to be cut off from everything she knew—no phone signal, no escape, no one to turn to. Just her, Liam, and the truth she was supposed to uncover before it buried her.

Elena stared at the widening gap in the shoreline, the reality of what was happening settling over her. The lake, the manor, the illusion that she could return whenever she wanted — all of it was disappearing behind them.

She turned toward him, gripping the railing tighter. "You didn't tell me we were going out to sea."

Liam didn't look away from the water. One hand rested on the wheel, his attention fixed ahead as the boat cut steadily through the waves. "You didn't ask."

A short laugh escaped her, but there was no humor in it. "That's really how you justify everything, isn't it?"

His eyes shifted toward her, calm but cautious. "Be specific."

Elena turned fully toward him. "You don't lie. You just give people half the information and expect them to figure out the rest."

For a moment, Liam said nothing. The wind pulled at his shirt, and his expression remained unreadable, but she noticed the slight tightening of his jaw.

"I told you we'd be away for a week," he said, his voice calm. "I assumed that was enough."

Elena looked at him for a long moment. That was the part that bothered her. Not the sea. Not the distance. Not even the fact that she hadn't thought to ask.

It was the way Liam moved through the world as if every decision had already been made, every detail already considered, and everyone else would simply adjust around him.

She had spent weeks learning that Liam Thorn rarely forced things.

He simply arranged them.