Chapter 4 - The Sound Through the WallThe stateroom on Deck 10 was shockingly spacious—a gleaming sanctuary of pale wood, plush carpeting, a king-sized bed draped in crisp white linens, and a private floor-to-ceiling glass door leading out onto a wide balcony overlooking the turquoise expanse of the Atlantic Ocean.
It was luxurious, serene, and entirely divorced from the messy reality waiting just a few feet away through the starboard bulkhead.
I stood by the vanity unpacking my toiletries when the first muffled sound drifted through the wall.
Thump.
Followed by a burst of laughter—Vanessa’s unmistakable, silvery laugh ringing out clearly through the thin drywall separating our cabin from theirs.
"They're unpacking," Bradley said calmly from the adjacent seating area, where he was calmly reviewing financial spreadsheets on his tablet. He didn't look up from the screen, but his shoulders had gone rigid, the muscles in his jaw ticking once.
I walked over to the wall, pressing my palm gently against the cool wood paneling.
"They booked a balcony suite," I murmured. "Champagne welcome package. Couples' massage on Tuesday. He really went all out with corporate funds."
"With my funds," Bradley corrected quietly, looking up from his tablet. His icy blue eyes met mine across the room. "Every cocktail they order on that terrace, every bite of wagyu beef at the captain's table, every excursion in Nassau and Cozumel—it's all running on a corporate credit line backed by my holding company."
"Then I suggest we make sure they enjoy every expensive second of it," I said, stepping away from the wall and walking over to the mini-bar. I picked up a bottle of complimentary sparkling water, popped the cap, and took a long sip. "When is our first move?"
Bradley checked his watch. The stainless steel chronograph caught the afternoon sunlight streaming through the balcony door.
"Dinner is at 8:00 PM at the Chef’s Table," Bradley said, standing up and smoothing the front of his navy sport coat. "It’s an intimate seating arrangement. Twelve people. Long communal table. The kind of place where everyone can see everyone else."
He walked over, stopping just inches away from me. The scent of sandalwood and expensive cedarwood enveloped me—clean, grounding, and completely steady.
"And they're scheduled to sit at the center of the table," Bradley added, a dangerous glint in his eye. "Right across from us."
"Did you arrange that with the concierge?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Money talks, Claire," he said simply. "Especially when you own a controlling stake in the parent company that manages the cruise line's digital booking infrastructure."
I laughed softly, shaking my head. "You're ruthless, Bradley Shaw."
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"I'm practical," he corrected, his voice dropping an octave as he looked down at me. "When someone steals from you, you don't write a strongly worded letter. You take back the keys, lock the doors, and watch them try to figure out why the lights went out."
"Well," I said, meeting his intense gaze without flinching. "Let's go show them what darkness looks like."
