MAYA

The dining room was just as beautiful as the rest of the yacht. Soft lighting reflected off the polished table, where several dishes had already been set out—fresh fruit, pasta, steak, and tiny desserts that looked almost too pretty to eat.

Silas pulled out my chair before taking the seat opposite me.

For the first few minutes, there was no reason to talk about anything serious. I helped myself to some pasta while he cut into his steak, and the gentle clink of cutlery filled the spaces between our occasional comments.

It felt relaxed, comfortable, and remarkably normal—a word I never imagined associating with Silas Blackwood months ago.

I...