Chapter 10: Rheala's Invitation
The invitation was issued with a flutter of Rheala’s lashes. “Darlings, you simply must see the Serenity. I’ve had the salon completely redone. And Tom makes a mean dark ‘n’ stormy. We’ve got lobster tails chilling.” Her violet eyes pinned Betty. “You look like you could use some real food, sweetheart. All that… cheering.”
Betty, still seemingly off-balance from the afternoon’s attention, nodded. “Sure. That sounds amazing.”
Lorna wanted to say no. The word sat on her tongue. But Phil was offering her a hand up, his expression genial. “Please, Lorna. We’ve only just scratched the surface of the Clayton Act. Humor an old litigator.”
Chermaine pushed off the log, dusting sand from her shorts. “A drink’s a drink,” she said, her tone noncommittal.
The transition from wild beach to polished luxury was jarring. The Serenity’s main salon was a capsule of controlled climate and wealth. The air smelled of lemon polish and cold air conditioning. White leather sofas formed a U-shape around a low glass table. A crystal chandelier, absurd and beautiful, dripped light onto the teak deck, already slick from a spilled droplet of condensation.
Lorna sat stiffly on the edge of a cushion, her damp one-piece leaving a faint mark on the pale leather. Tom handed her a crystal tumbler. The rum was top-shelf, dark and smoky. She took a sip, the burn a welcome anchor.
“So, Lorna,” Phil began, settling opposite her with his own drink. “Your firm’s stance on shareholder activism in the current climate—pragmatism or capitulation?”
It was a brilliant, engaging question. Tom leaned in, ready for the debate. Lorna’s brain, grateful for the familiar terrain, clicked into gear. Her voice found its old authority, discussing proxy fights and board seats. Part of her was here, arguing points with sharp, practiced precision.
The other part was across the salon.
Rheala had Betty on a longer, lower sofa. She’d poured the girl something clear and fizzy in a champagne flute. “Just a little prosecco, darling. To celebrate… new friendships.” She sat close, her surgically enhanced body angled toward Betty like a moon exerting its pull.
“It’s so beautiful in here,” Betty said, her voice soft with awe. She sipped, her eyes wide.
“It’s a gilded cage, if I’m honest,” Rheala sighed, a dramatic, practiced sound. “All this perfection. It gets lonely.” Her hand, resting on the sofa back, began to gently, almost imperceptibly, play with a strand of Betty’s blonde hair. “Your hair is like corn silk. Do you have any idea how rare that is?”
Betty didn’t move away. She took another sip, a faint smile on her lips. The afternoon sun, the disorientation, the flattery—it was a cocktail as potent as the one in her glass.
Chermaine stood by the wet bar, her back to the room, watching the ocean darken through the broad window. She refilled her whiskey glass from a decanter. The soft clink of crystal was the only sign she was listening to it all.
Dinner was a surreal performance. They ate lobster and drank chilled white wine at a table that could seat twelve. Phil and Tom carried the conversation with Lorna, a smooth volley of finance and law. Rheala barely touched her food. She fed Betty stories of Monaco and Saint-Tropez, her voice a hypnotic murmur, her knee now pressed firmly against the girl’s under the table. Betty laughed at the right moments, her cheeks flushed, her gaze growing hazy.
Lorna tried to catch her eye. Betty. She tried to transmit the warning through sheer will. But Betty’s world had narrowed to the chandelier light in Rheala’s eyes and the warm pressure against her leg.
As a server cleared the plates, Rheala clapped her hands together. “It’s stifling in here with all this… talk.” She grinned, a flash of those white teeth. “The stars will be insane tonight. No moon. Let’s go back to the beach. One last, proper glass of rum under the real sky. No walls.”
Betty immediately brightened. “Yes! That sounds perfect.” There was a sliver of the old, eager girl in her voice, but it was blurred at the edges.
Chermaine finally turned from the window. She looked at Rheala, then at Betty’s glowing, pliant face. A slow, almost imperceptible shrug lifted one shoulder. “Your boat. Your rum.”
Lorna’s heart seized. “Betty, maybe we should—”
“Oh, let the child have some adventure, Lorna,” Phil said kindly, patting her hand. “We’re not finished picking your brain, I’m afraid. That case from the Second Circuit you cited…”
Tom nodded. “We’ll open the good cognac. You’ll be in excellent hands.”
It was a prison of exquisite politeness. She was outmaneuvered. To insist on going would seem rude, paranoid, maternal in a way that would shatter the sophisticated facade she’d been clinging to. To stay was to abandon her niece.
Betty was already standing, a little unsteady. Rheala’s arm slid around her waist, a possessive band. “Come on, Captain,” Rheala said to Chermaine, her voice ripe with implication. “Bring the bottle.”
Chermaine lifted the near-full bottle of dark rum from the bar. She gave Lorna a last, lingering look as she passed—a look that was neither a reassurance nor a threat. It was simply an acknowledgment. A receipt.
Then they were gone. The sound of the dinghy’s motor fading into the thickening dusk.
Silence pooled in the lavish salon, broken only by the hum of the generator. Tom poured three snifters of fragrant cognac. Phil raised his glass.
“To fascinating conversation,” he said.
Lorna’s fingers closed around the bowl of the glass. The warmth of the liquor did nothing to melt the cold lump of dread in her chest. She was surrounded by polished wood and intellect and impeccable manners, and she had never felt more powerless. The debate about regulatory frameworks resumed, the words flowing around her like water. She answered, her voice steady, her mind a scream trapped behind her teeth, staring at the empty space where Betty had last sat.