Bri froze, one foot in midair, as if someone had hit her with a tranquilizer dart. The hallway seemed to shrink in around her, walls pressing in so tight the light above her head sharpened to a surgical spotlight. In that white-out moment, all she saw was Baron.

He stood at the end of the hall, shoes planted with military precision, hands folded behind his back as if he’d been waiting for her the whole time. The suit—charcoal, tailored within a millimeter of his frame—didn’t so much hang on him as obey. He looked taller than she remembered, the silver in his hair more pronounced. He smiled—a precise, bloodless curve of his lips that never touched his eyes. Michael was a half-step behind, arms loose and casual but his posture projected guilt.

Bri’s chest slammed into overdrive. The pulse in her neck roared. Her first instinct was to turn and run—anything but this—but her feet betrayed her, locking down even as Anri, oblivious, sidled up next to her.

“There you are!” Anri boomed, with the invincible ease of someone who had never known true fear. He shot Bri a sunny grin and then clocked the tableau: Baron, Michael, the way Bri stood with her jaw locked and her hands too still at her sides.

Baron’s gaze sliced to Anri, took in every atom of him, then drifted back to Bri with a micro-lift of one eyebrow. “Brianna,” he said, warmth oozing in all the wrong places, “I was just coming to check on you.” He didn’t blink, didn’t even acknowledge the raw edge in her voice when she replied.

“I’m fine. We were just heading to get ready for dinner,” Bri said. Imagine that. Her voice worked. She tried to keep it neutral, but she could hear the shiver at the end of the words.

Michael gave her a small, almost imperceptible smile. It was a stupid, sheepish thing that managed to be both apologetic and ‘I told you so’ at once. All those cryptic comments on the plane, the weird “I need to talk to you later” — it made sense now. Of course Baron was here. Of course Michael had known. She was going to kill him.

Baron’s eyes never left Bri’s. “Is that so?” he said, voice wrapping around the syllables like silk.

“Who’s your friend?” He tipped his chin at Anri with the same attention he might pay to a potential investment—no threat, just a variable to be measured.

Anri stepped forward, extending a hand like he was on a debate stage. “Sir, good to meet you. I’m—”

Bri cut him off, sharp as a scalpel. “He’s a student. No one to concern yourself with.”

Anri blinked, caught mid-outreach, then covered the fumble with a politician’s grin. “Just showing her the ropes,” he said, laugh softening the awkwardness.

Baron’s eyes flicked to the still-extended hand, then back to Bri. “Efficient, as always.” He didn’t smile, but his lips pulled tight at the corners. Bri hated that line, the way he used it like a backhand. Every conversation with him was a chess match played on her nerves.

Michael hung back, face a mask of calm, but his eyes begged her to do something—say something, anything, to break the tension. Bri ignored him. She’d already decided: she would not cede an inch. Not to Baron, not here, not ever again.

“We’re late. I need to shower,” Bri said. She stepped past Baron, not waiting for him to move. For a wild second, she thought he might block her—maybe put a hand on her shoulder like he used to—but he didn’t flinch, just stood there, making her walk around him, making her feel his presence every inch of the way.

As she passed, the faintest whiff of his cologne reached her. That expensive, citrus scent that made her throat tighten.

Her stride was clipped, each step a deliberate act of will. She fixed her gaze on the hallway’s end but couldn’t block the details: the exact dimple in Baron’s tie, the glint of a cufflink. He was a statue, and she was the one forced to navigate around him. Michael offered a weak, guilty wave that she cut through without a glance, her focus locked on the hum of the ship, a low thrum of escape.

Anri caught up fast, falling in step beside her. He matched her stride, not asking questions, just letting the pace burn off the last of the adrenaline.

Behind her, Baron didn’t call out. He didn’t need to. The chill of his gaze followed her all the way down the corridor, every step an echo of the one before. She didn’t look back. Not even once.

Bri slammed the stairwell door open so hard it bounced back and rattled in its frame. She was already taking the steps two at a time, her flip flops slapping with a satisfying thunk.

The corridor’s manufactured chill faded instantly in the heat of the stairwell, but she welcomed the sweat and the burn. The thought of the elevator, a small box trapping her with his memory, was impossible. She needed air, space, the raw physical effort of escape.

Anri caught up fast, his long legs barely working for it. For a few flights, he trailed at a respectful distance, letting her hammer out the worst of it, but by floor ten, she was winded, and he was right beside her.

“You want to talk about it?” he asked, not even winded.

“No.” Bri didn’t slow down.

He nodded like he’d expected that. They did the next two landings in silence, the only sound the echo of their steps and the faint, tinny music piped through the ship’s overhead speakers. It was so at odds with her pulse that she wanted to scream.

When they hit the landing for thirteen, Anri finally broke in, softer: “If you ever need it, I’m more than just a pretty face.”

Bri snorted, couldn’t help herself. “Surprisingly, there’s more to you than meets the eye.”

He grinned, showing all his teeth. “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

“Whatever floats your boat,” she said, deadpan, and that cracked him up—an honest, barking laugh that ricocheted off the walls.

Anri was still chuckling. “Pun intended?” She gave him a look that said—obviously—and kept climbing.

When they hit the suite level, Bri’s panic was nearly gone, replaced by a ringing exhaustion. The carpet outside the Poseidon suites was so white it almost glowed, the ocean glare bouncing through the porthole windows like a spotlight aimed just at her. She stopped at the desk, recollected herself, and then turned to Anri.

“I’m good from here.”

He read the signal and let it go, but not before giving her a final, disarming smile. “Yeah, okay. I look forward to seeing you in a bit. Seven?”

Bri just nodded.

He gave a little salute and headed off, hands in pockets, whistling some old pop song she recognized from her mother’s playlist.

She waited until he was out of sight before she let herself sag against the door, the air cold against her cheek. For a second, she just breathed.

Eyes closed. Hands trembling, but less than before.

Then the door hissed open. Asune stood there, her color still muted, hair still wet from the shower, purple dress already on and clinging with calculated distraction.

“Hey,” said Bri, voice raw. “You feeling better? You aren’t going to throw up on me, are you?” Asune waved a dismissive hand, though her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Now you, on the other hand, look like you just saw a ghost. Go shower. I’ll get everything ready.”

Bri didn’t argue. She stepped inside and let the door seal behind her, the world outside shrinking to nothing.