His eyes sharpened.
I let my knees buckle slightly.
He stood.
Caught me.
“Claire.”
“I’m tired.”
“You shouldn’t walk around alone.”
His voice was gentle.
Too gentle.
He guided me back to bed.
Then reached for the bedside water.
“Drink.”
I looked at it.
My stomach turned.
“I don’t want it.”
“You need fluids.”
“I’ll throw up.”
He hesitated.
Then smiled.
“Okay.”
He set it down.
That told me more than if he had forced me.
He wanted me compliant.
Not dead yet.
“Where are your parents?”
“Sleeping.”
“Still here?”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“Greyhaven?”
Silence.
One second.
Then:
“What?”
I opened my eyes slightly.
“Are we going to Greyhaven?”
Adrian stared.
“Who told you that?”
I pretended confusion.
“I don’t know.”
He relaxed.
Then kissed my forehead.
“You’re imagining things.”
There it was.
A lie inside a kiss.
I almost cried.
Not from fear.
From grief.
Because some part of me had still hoped.
He left the room thirty minutes later.
I waited five minutes.
Then followed.
Not closely.
I used the service corridor above the engine compartment.
There was a narrow stairway leading behind the main salon.
Voices carried through the paneling.
Thomas.
Margaret.
Adrian.
Not whispering.
Arguing.
Thomas said:
“The transfer has to happen before we reach Greyhaven.”
Adrian answered:
“She hasn’t signed the confirmation.”
“She already signed the authorization.”
