Chapter 3 - Embarkation Day at Port MiamiThe Port of Miami terminal on Monday morning was a chaotic sea of rolling luggage, excited families wearing matching neon shirts, sunburned retirees clutching drink packages, and overworked porters shouting instructions across the cavernous steel-and-glass hall.
Amidst the tropical-shirted masses, David Warren stood near the VIP priority check-in line looking like a man who believed he had successfully outsmarted the universe.
He was wearing a crisp white polo shirt, designer sunglasses pushed up into his styled dark hair, and lightweight khaki slacks that screamed middle-management executive on a budget. Beside him stood Vanessa Hale, radiant and untouchable in a floor-length white sundress, oversized Celine sunglasses, and a wide-brimmed straw hat. Resting gracefully on her left ring finger was the six-figure diamond engagement ring Bradley had paid for, catching the fluorescent terminal lights and throwing prismatic sparks across the floor.
They looked like a glossy advertisement for an upscale divorce lawyer’s nightmare.
I stood fifty feet away, half-hidden behind a concrete support pillar, wearing an oversized black linen blazer, wide-leg trousers, and large tortoiseshell sunglasses that effectively shielded my face.
Beside me, Bradley stood with his hands casually shoved into the pockets of his dark tailored trousers. He wore a crisp navy sport coat and a black linen shirt, looking less like a betrayed fiancé and more like a bond villain about to foreclose on a continent.
"There they are," Bradley murmured, his voice flat, his blue eyes locked onto the couple near the priority desk.
"Look at how comfortable he is," I muttered, watching David lean down to whisper something in Vanessa’s ear that made her throw her head back and laugh—that bright, performative laugh I had listened to across our dining room table for eight months. "He told me he was flying to Seattle for a logistics emergency. He even left his winter coat in the front hall closet so it would look authentic."
"Don't worry," Bradley said, pulling his phone from his pocket and tapping the screen. "We’re about to alter his weather forecast."
He sent a quick text.
Across the terminal, David’s phone buzzed in his hand.
I watched through my dark lenses as my husband pulled the device from his pocket, glanced at the screen, and frowned. The easy, carefree smile vanished from his face, replaced by a momentary crease of professional anxiety. He tapped out a quick reply, shoved the phone back into his pocket, and forced the smile back onto his face as an agent called them forward to the counter.
"What did you text him?" I asked, looking up at Bradley.
"Just a reminder from his 'board of directors' that his primary investor—which happens to be my holding company—will be reviewing his quarterly financial logs very carefully this week," Bradley replied smoothly, slipping his phone away. "Let's move. Priority boarding is opening for our deck."
We bypassed the general crowd, our VIP credentials granting us immediate access through the security gates and up the massive ramp leading into the belly of the floating leviathan: The Royal Horizon, a twenty-deck floating city of steel, glass, luxury, and manufactured illusion.
As we stepped through the double glass doors into the soaring, multi-story atrium gleaming with brass accents and glass elevators, Bradley turned to me.
"Our cabins," he said, pulling out two sleek black keycards. "Deck 10. Starboard side."
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"Let me guess," I said, a slow smile spreading across my face.
"Cabin 1243 is David and Vanessa," Bradley said, holding up the keycard for Cabin 1245. "And we are right next door. Shall we go unpack?"
