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Must be nice to have servants to fish for your lunch on a whim, I thought.
“Come,” Tristan told me, gesturing with his palm in a precise manner. “Mr. Benning is waiting.”
Still wondering if this was a good idea or not, I allowed myself to be guided inside the yacht.
4
Melinda
From the helipad, we entered into an airy lounge with armchairs and small tables meant to hold drinks. A full bar occupied the entire wall ahead of us, complete with a white-clad bartender who was currently washing glasses with a rag.
“Welcome aboard the Bellerophon,” he said warmly. “Care for a drink?”
Although I could have used a stiff drink for courage, I replied, “I’m fine, thanks.”
“Right this way,” Tristan said, taking the lead down a hallway behind the bar. Andrew peeled off, leaving me alone with Tristan. Except as we navigated deeper into the yacht, we were never really alone. Servants in crisp white uniforms were everywhere: dusting oil paintings on the walls, restocking trays of candies, carrying crates of food. That helped defuse my anxiety a little bit. Nothing bad could happen to me with so many witnesses around.
Witnesses who work for Mr. and Mrs. Benning. If something happened, would they really cross someone who owned a fucking yacht?
“Andrew will give you a proper tour of the Bellerophon upon the conclusion of your business with Mr. Benning,” Tristan said in that posh English accent.
“This is just supposed to be a meet-and-greet,” I felt the need to point out. “I haven’t actually signed anything yet.”
“But you will,” Tristan said.
I hated the way he said it, like it was a foregone conclusion. As if I had no say in the matter.
“In fact, the parade of documents you must sign begins now,” Tristan said as we came to a small office room with a large window showing the ocean. He swept a piece of paper off the desk and handed it to me along with an expensive-looking Mont Blanc pen.
“What is it?” I asked.
“This is a standard non-disclosure agreement. I am certain you will find it quite straightforward. You may not disclose any of the specifics of your meeting with Mr. Benning, nor the details of the contracts you will be given.”
I stared skeptically at the page.
“The meeting cannot begin until this is signed,” Tristan said dryly, narrowing those blue-gray eyes. “If you are uncomfortable doing so, I will have Andrew return you to Providence.”
I skimmed the NDA. I wasn’t an expert in contract law, but it did seem straightforward. I placed the paper on the desk and signed it.
“Very good,” Tristan said. “Mr. Benning will see you now.”
The door he opened was dark wood carved with designs around the border. It was heavy, and thick, and as it opened I noticed several circular deadbolts set inside the lock. The interior appeared to be steel, like the door to a bank vault.
Inside was a large room that was part work space, part library. It took up the width of the yacht, with floor-to-ceiling windows on either side, although the curtains were currently drawn. Warm lamplight lit the room from recessed alcoves in the ceiling and floor. It reminded me of a cozy book store where I used to study when I was a student at Brown.
The drawn curtains concerned me. Once again, I wondered if I was about to be kidnapped and sold into the sex trade. I hoped my GPS location was still transmitting, despite the lack of cell signal.
At one end of the room was a large hearth with a gas fireplace, the flames flickering quietly. In front of that was a broad teak desk with a massive curved computer monitor. There was a man seated in a leather chair behind the monitor. When he saw me, he pressed a button and the huge computer screen descended into the desk out of sight, like a theater performer disappearing below stage. The man stood, a thoughtful expression on his face as he regarded me.
Pierce Benning.
The man I had come to meet wore slacks and a button-down, but no tie. His shirt was unbuttoned to reveal a little bit of his tan chest, and his sleeves were rolled up. After seeing Andrew and Tristan both wearing full suits, Pierce looked downright casual by comparison.
And there’s something familiar about him…
He was young—younger than I expected. Maybe late twenties, a few years older than me. And he was incredibly handsome. Alarmingly so. Sharp green eyes regarded me from above a prominent nose, and he had the jawline of a cologne model. Yet his broad shoulders spoke of an athletic upbringing. I wasn’t sure what I expected from someone who owned a yacht. He wasn’t scrawny like Mark Zuckerberg, or doughy like Elon Musk. This looked like a man who could throw on a uniform and play ninety minutes for Manchester United.
“Melinda Norris,” Pierce said in a smooth, deep voice. “I’ve waited quite some time to meet you.”
