Chapter 2

Scene 7 – Friday 3 am – Crew cabin

The corridor was quiet except for the low thrum of the engines and the occasional distant moan drifting down from above. Lena’s heels clicked too loud; she kicked them off outside the crew area and carried them in one hand.

The cabin was barely bigger than a walk-in closet: one narrow bunk, one thin mattress, one flat pillow, one folded blanket. A single red bulb over the door gave just enough light to see.

Marcus was already inside, sitting on the edge of the bunk, elbows on his knees, shirt unbuttoned and hanging open. He looked up when she slipped through the door.

They stared at each other for a long second.

“I asked if there was another cabin,” he said, voice hoarse. “They laughed.”

Lena closed the door behind her. The click sounded enormous.

Marcus stood, took one step back (nowhere else to go) and gestured at the bunk like it was a trap. “You take it. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“There is no floor,” she said. The space between bunk and wall was maybe eight inches. “We’ll fit. We’re adults.”

She set her shoes down, reached behind her neck, and unzipped the black dress. It slid off her shoulders and pooled at her feet. She stepped out of it wearing only the soaked thong and the rolls of euros still tucked into it like a money belt.

Marcus’s eyes tracked every movement. He exhaled through his teeth.

Lena peeled the bills out, set the thick stack on the tiny shelf, then hooked her thumbs in the thong and let it drop too. Completely naked now except for the faint red marks where the elastic had dug in.

Marcus hadn’t moved. His chest rose and fell too fast.

“Your turn,” she said quietly.

He unbuttoned the white trousers, shoved them down with his boxer briefs in one motion. His cock sprang free (hard, heavy, a bead of pre-come already glistening at the tip). He didn’t try to hide it.

They stood a foot apart, breathing the same small pocket of air.

Lena broke first. She climbed onto the bunk, lay on her side facing the wall, pulled the thin blanket up to her waist. The mattress dipped as Marcus got in behind her. There was barely room; his chest pressed against her back, his thighs against hers, his erection hot and unmistakable against the curve of her ass.

Neither of them spoke.

The boat rocked gently. Somewhere far away a woman laughed, then moaned long and low.

Marcus’s arm hovered, then settled carefully on her hip (not pulling, not pushing, just resting there). His hand trembled.

Lena felt every inch of where they touched: his forearm against her ribs, his breath stirring the fine hairs at her nape, the pulse in his cock throbbing against her skin in perfect time with her own heartbeat.

Minutes passed. Or hours. She couldn’t tell.

She shifted (just an inch) and the head of his cock slid along the seam of her thigh, leaving a wet trail. Marcus made a strangled sound in his throat.

“Lena,” he whispered, so quietly she almost missed it.

“I know,” she whispered back.

They didn’t move again.

The red bulb painted them in blood-light, two married strangers spooning naked on a bunk the width of a surfboard, pretending to sleep while the yacht carried them deeper into tomorrow.

Scene 8 – Saturday 8 am – Breakfast deck

The sun was already fierce, pouring white light across the teak deck and turning the sea into hammered metal. The breakfast spread looked innocent enough (fresh croissants, tropical fruit, silver coffee pots), until you noticed that half the guests were naked, one woman was lazily riding a man in a deck chair while sipping mimosa, and nobody was using plates anymore.

Lena stepped out of the companionway in last night’s black dress, hair twisted up with a pen, barefoot. Marcus followed a second later, white shirt hanging open, same trousers, eyes bloodshot. They had maybe managed forty minutes of actual sleep.

Victor Hale stood at the rail in linen shorts and nothing else, tanned and relaxed, drinking coffee like he hadn’t orchestrated an orgy six hours ago.

He spotted them immediately and smiled the way a cat smiles at a pair of mice who’ve just realized the cage door is locked.

“Good morning, my favorite caterers,” he called, loud enough that several heads turned. “Sleep well?”

Lena felt every masked (and unmasked) gaze land on them. Someone whistled softly.

Marcus’s jaw flexed. Lena lifted her chin.

Victor walked over, coffee cup in one hand. He stopped just close enough that they could smell the citrus and sex still clinging to his skin.

“Here’s the new offer,” he said conversationally. “Uniforms off for the rest of the weekend. Lingerie for Lena, boxer briefs for Marcus. Same color scheme—black for her, white for him—so you still match the brand.” He paused, sipped. “That doubles yesterday’s fee again. Forty-eight thousand euros each when you leave tomorrow morning. Cash, of course.”

A ripple went through the nearby guests (appreciative murmurs, a low laugh).

Lena’s pulse thudded in her ears. Forty-eight thousand. More than she and her husband made together in four months.

Marcus spoke first, voice rough from no sleep and too much tequila. “And if we say no?”

Victor shrugged, almost kindly. “Then you put the uniforms back on, finish the charter like perfect professionals, and walk away with the original twenty-four thousand each. No hard feelings.” He smiled wider. “But no one has ever chosen that option. Not once.”

Silence stretched. The woman in the deck chair moaned softly, finishing with a shiver.

Victor set his cup down and spread his hands. “You have thirty seconds to decide. After that the offer disappears and we go back to plan A.”