Chapter 1

Friday 3 pm – Monaco Harbor

The tender cut through the water like a knife, bouncing hard enough that Lena had to grip the polished rail with both hands. Salt spray misted her face and stuck to the inside of her sunglasses. Beside her, Marcus sat with his elbows on his knees, staring straight ahead, jaw tight. Neither of them had said much since the driver in the black suit picked them up outside the catering office.

The yacht appeared first as a white cliff against the blue, then grew impossibly larger with every second: six decks, dark-tinted windows, a helipad on the bow. Lena felt her stomach drop the way it did on roller-coasters when she was a kid.

“Jesus,” Marcus muttered under his breath. It was the first word either of them had spoken in twenty minutes.

The tender slowed alongside a teak platform that lowered itself silently into the water. Two crew in crisp white uniforms caught the lines and helped them aboard. No gangway, no red carpet—just the quiet efficiency of people used to moving billionaires around.

A man waited at the top of the stairs. Mid-forties, tanned, linen suit the color of wet sand, no tie. He smiled like he already knew every secret they were about to collect.

“Welcome to Elysium,” he said, shaking their hands with exactly the right pressure. “Victor Hale. You must be Lena and Marcus. My people vetted you thoroughly—no social media, excellent references, and most importantly, you both know how to keep your mouths shut.”

Lena forced a professional smile. “We’ve signed NDAs for royalty before, Mr. Hale.”

“Victor, please. And those were for brunch. This one is ... different.” He gestured toward a crewman who held a lacquered tray with two velvet envelopes. “Phones, please.”

Marcus hesitated half a second, then dropped his iPhone in. Lena followed. The envelopes were sealed with red wax and numbered—14 and 15.

Victor watched with amusement. “For forty-eight hours you are ghosts. No photos, no calls, no rescue. In return, when you step off Sunday morning, you will each carry an envelope containing two weeks’ pay in cash. More if you prove ... accommodating.”

He produced two slim folders and a fountain pen. The NDA was only one page but the penalty clause was printed in bold: €500,000 liquidated damages for any breach, plus forfeiture of all payment.

Lena’s hand was steady when she signed. Marcus exhaled through his nose and scrawled his name beneath hers.

“Excellent,” Victor said, taking the folders. “Uniforms are waiting below. You’ll find them more comfortable than your usual blacks.”

He turned to go, then paused. “One last thing. Whatever you see this weekend, whatever you’re offered—participation is never required. But refusal has never, in twelve years of these parties, been the more profitable choice.”

He flashed that same easy smile and disappeared up a staircase.

Marcus looked at Lena. “Two weeks’ pay,” he said quietly, as if reminding himself.

“Two weeks’ pay,” she echoed, already tasting the salt on her lips and something else underneath it—something that felt dangerously like anticipation.

A crewman appeared. “This way, please.”

They followed him below deck, toward whatever came next.

Friday 5 pm – Main deck changing room

The crewman led them down a narrow corridor and pushed open a teak door no wider than a closet. Inside was a small, mirrored changing area lit by warm spots. Two black garment bags hung from hooks. A bench. Nothing else.

“Five minutes until guests board,” the crewman said in accented English, then closed the door with a soft click that sounded final.

Lena and Marcus stood there in the sudden quiet, the low thrum of the engines vibrating through the soles of their shoes.

Marcus cleared his throat. “I’ll ... turn around.”

He faced the mirror anyway, which defeated the purpose. Lena caught his eyes in the reflection before he forced them down to his duffel.

She unzipped the first garment bag. Inside was a black micro-dress, backless, with a neckline that plunged almost to the navel. The fabric felt expensive, heavy silk that slid like water over her fingers. No bra possible. A tiny black thong—basically a suggestion—lay folded beneath it. Four-inch patent heels, ankle straps.

“Christ,” she whispered.

Marcus had already pulled his own outfit free: white linen shirt, mother-of-pearl buttons, cut so fitted it might as well have been painted on. Matching white trousers that sat low on the hips and looked like they would outline every damn thing. No underwear provided.

He glanced over, saw the dress in her hands, and his ears went red.

Lena laughed once, a nervous burst. “We’re going to look like we were hired for something else entirely.”

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “We were.”

The silence stretched. The yacht gave a gentle roll; somewhere far above, a woman’s laugh echoed down the stairwell.

Lena turned her back to him—pointless in a mirrored box—and peeled off her catering polo. The air-conditioning kissed her bare skin. She felt his gaze before she saw it: in the mirror he was frozen, shirt half-unbuttoned, watching her like he’d been caught stealing.

She unhooked her bra, let it drop onto the bench. Her nipples tightened instantly in the cool air. Marcus’s reflection swallowed hard.

“Sorry,” he muttered, spinning away so fast he cracked his elbow on the wall.

Lena stepped out of her jeans and sensible cotton panties, then into the thong. The silk string settled between her cheeks; the front triangle barely covered her. She shimmied into the dress. It clung like a second skin, the back plunging so low the dimples above her ass were on display. The neckline framed her breasts the way a push-up bra never could.

She turned. Marcus had managed to button his shirt, but the trousers were still in his hands. He stood there in black boxer briefs, obvious and growing more obvious by the second.