Chapter 6: The Morning After
The first thing Betty noticed was the scent. Sandalwood, salt, her own sweat, and something else—a musky, intimate smell that permeated the silk sheets tangled around her legs. Memory returned not as a thought, but as a physical echo: a deep, sore ache between her thighs, the tender brand of a bruise on her neck, the phantom bite of silk on her wrists.
Sunlight, brutal and cheerful, cut through the windows and striped the bed. She was alone. The other side of the mattress held the deep impression of Chermaine’s body, still warm.
A hot wave of shame closed her throat. She saw flashes: the dark window, her own reflection, the captain’s hands. The sobbing. She moved, wincing at the sting. She had to get out.
She slid from the sheets, her naked body feeling foreign, marked. Her clothes from last night were a discarded pile by the door. She didn’t want to put them back on. They felt contaminated. She grabbed the top sheet, wrapping it around herself like a toga, the fine fabric whispering against her skin.
She padded to the cabin door, her ears straining. Only the hum of the yacht, the gentle lap of water. She eased the door open, peeked into the narrow, wood-paneled corridor. Empty.
She slipped out, the cool teak of the sole beneath her feet. Four steps. Her own cabin door was just past Lorna’s. She focused on it, a haven.
She didn’t see Lorna’s door was open a crack. Not until she was passing it.
She froze. Her aunt stood in the gap, fully dressed in a linen tunic, a cup of coffee steaming in her hand. She had been watching. Waiting. Their eyes met.
Lorna’s face was a careful, professional mask, but her eyes were raw, bloodshot. They flickered down, taking in the bundled sheet, Betty’s disheveled hair, the purple bloom on her neck. Her knuckles went white around the coffee mug.
Betty’s heart hammered against her ribs. The air vanished. She saw the knowledge in Lorna’s gaze—a sick, intimate knowledge. She’d heard. She’d listened to everything.
Betty’s chin dropped. She couldn’t hold the stare. Shame burned hotter than the sun outside. She hurried the last two steps to her cabin door, fumbled with the handle, and ducked inside, closing it with a soft, definitive click.
She stood with her back against it, the sheet clutched to her chest, breathing in short, sharp gasps.
In the corridor, Lorna didn’t move. The scent of Betty’s panic—and that other scent, the one clinging to the sheet—hung in the air. She lifted her coffee, took a sip. It was bitter, ash on her tongue.
She had heard the door to the master suite open. Had crept to her own door, compelled by a gut-deep nausea she couldn’t name. And she had seen. The guilty, hunted scramble. The evidence plain on her niece’s skin.
Her own body responded with a treacherous, liquid pull low in her belly. The memory of her own fingers last night, the muffled sounds through the wall, coiled tight inside her.
She closed her door. Leaned her forehead against the cool wood. “Stupid,” she whispered to the empty room. “You stupid, pathetic woman.”
Breakfast was served on the aft deck under a white canvas awning. The sea was a dizzying sheet of turquoise. It felt like a mockery.
Chermaine was at the small galley counter, squeezing oranges into a pitcher. She wore only tight swim shorts and a thin tank top, her muscles moving with easy grace. She looked rested, satisfied.
Betty appeared first, wearing a conservative one-piece swimsuit under a satin robe, her hair brushed into a sleek ponytail. She wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. She sat at the wrought-iron table, staring at her own hands.
“Juice?” Chermaine asked, her voice cheerful.
Betty flinched at the sound. She nodded, silent.
Chermaine brought the pitcher over, poured a glass. She placed a hand on Betty’s shoulder as she did. Betty went rigid, a tremor running through her.
“Sleep okay?” Chermaine asked, her thumb rubbing a small circle on Betty’s collarbone.
“Yes,” Betty whispered.
“Good.” Chermaine’s hand lingered a moment too long before she returned to the galley.
Lorna emerged then. She had put on her managerial armor: a wide-brimmed hat, large sunglasses, a kaftan that covered everything. She moved with a forced dignity and took the seat opposite Betty.
“Morning,” Chermaine called. “Coffee’s fresh.”
“Thank you,” Lorna said, her voice perfectly neutral. She poured herself a cup, her hands steady. She looked at Betty over the rim of her sunglasses. “You’re up early.”
Betty’s gaze flicked up, then away. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“The sea takes getting used to.”
A silence stretched, filled only with the cry of a distant gull. Chermaine watched them, a faint smile playing on her lips as she plated sliced mango and papaya.
“We’ll anchor at Little Sister Cay today,” Chermaine said, setting the plates down. “Private beach. Pristine. You’ll love it.” She sat at the head of the small table, her bare foot brushing against Betty’s ankle under the table.
Betty jerked her leg away.
Lorna saw it. She took a sharp breath. “That sounds fine,” she said, cutting the air.
“Something wrong, Ms. Green?” Chermaine asked, biting into a slice of mango. Juice dripped down her chin. She didn’t wipe it away.
“Nothing’s wrong.” Lorna’s tone was ice. The tone she used with junior analysts who’d fucked up a spreadsheet. “We’re just tired. It was a… restless night.”
Chermaine’s smile widened. “Yeah. The boat’s walls are thin. You hear everything.” She looked directly at Lorna. “Every little sound.”
Lorna’s cheeks flushed a deep red beneath her makeup. She put her coffee cup down. It clattered against the saucer.
Betty stood up suddenly, her chair scraping. “I’m not hungry.” She turned and walked quickly to the rail, gripping it, her back to them.
Chermaine watched her go, then shifted her amused, predatory gaze back to Lorna. She spoke softly, for Lorna’s ears only. “She came to my door. You know that, right? She walked right in. She wanted it.”
Lorna’s fists clenched in her lap. “She’s a child.”
“She’s a legal adult dripping with need. Just like someone else at this table.” Chermaine leaned forward. “The difference is, she’s honest about it. You just listen at doors and lie to yourself.”
The insult was so precise, so devastatingly accurate, it stole Lorna’s breath. She was a woman who negotiated million-dollar contracts, and she had no defense. Hot tears pricked behind her sunglasses. She was grateful for them.
“What do you want?” Lorna hissed, the facade cracking.
“Same thing I wanted yesterday,” Chermaine said, leaning back, lacing her fingers behind her head. “The truth. From both of you.” She nodded toward Betty at the rail. “I got a taste of hers. Now I want yours. All that power, all that polish… I want to see what’s underneath. I want to hear you break.”
Lorna stood. Her body trembled with a fury so vast it was silent. She looked from Chermaine’s smug face to Betty’s fragile, rigid back.
Without another word, she turned and walked away, not toward the cabins, but up the narrow side deck toward the bow, needing space, needing to be anywhere but here.
Chermaine watched her go. She finished her mango, then stood and walked to the rail beside Betty. She didn’t touch her. Just stood close, looking out at the same water.
“She’s angry,” Chermaine said.
“She’s disgusted,” Betty whispered, her voice thick.
“No. She’s jealous.” Chermaine let that hang in the salt air. “She heard you last night. And it woke something up in her that’s been sleeping for a long, long time.”
Betty finally turned her head, looking at Chermaine, her green eyes wide with confusion and hurt. “Why are you doing this?”
Chermaine met her gaze, her own eyes dark and unreadable. “Because I can.” She reached out and tucked a stray strand of blonde hair behind Betty’s ear, her finger tracing the curve of it. “And because you both need it more than you hate it. Now go get your sunscreen. We’re going ashore.”
She walked away, leaving Betty clinging to the rail, the words settling into her like stones.
At the bow, Lorna gripped the hot metal railing, the sun baking her covered skin. The jealousy was a physical pain, sharper than shame. He’d been right. She had listened. She had wanted. And the sight of that mark on Betty’s neck hadn’t filled her with protective rage, but with a deep, yearning emptiness.
She closed her eyes. The image came unbidden: not of Betty, but of herself. On her knees. The silk rope. The relentless, silencing touch.
A shudder ran through her, part terror, part craving.
She opened her eyes to the boundless, uncaring blue. The decision, she realized, had already been made. It was just a matter of when she would stop lying about it.