Page 36 of When Hearts Unravel

“What do you mean there’s a problem?”

The unmistakable low rasp stops me in my tracks.

It’s Rex Anderson, and he sounds angry.

Chapter Twelve

“The entire orchestra camedown with norovirus. They can’t perform until Dubrovnik,” a stocky man in a black suit says while blotting his forehead with a tissue.

He looks seconds away from expiring in front of Rex.

The party prince himself is anything but carefree at the moment. He glances in my direction but I duck behind a column just in time, my heart pounding.

Why the hell am I hiding, anyway? This is public space. It’s not like I’m breaking any rules.

“Carpe diem, Olive. Break some rules.”Mia’s imaginary laughter reaches my ears.

“Do we have backup? Symphony under the stars is tonight, Gregory.”

Gregory pinches his nose. “No, not for this one. Vienna Orchestra was the first to confirm and reconfirm. We didn’t think there’d be a need for a backup.”

“Fuck!” Rex slams his hands on the railing, his dark hair ruffled by the wind.

“Sir, perhaps we should apol—”

“Give me a second. Let me think.”

What happens next has my traitorous pulse clamoring, the very reaction I was hoping to get when I met Dr. Rhys Fenton earlier.

Rex, in his towering, navy-suit-wearing glory, straightens. He grips the railing and tilts his face toward the sky.

The stark bluish daylight—the sun having disappeared behind thick clouds while I was at the medical bay—collides against the sharp panes of his face like a violent painting, as if the artist couldn’t decide if he loved or hated his subject.

Rex’s corded throat works. His eyes are closed, his lips moving, but I don’t hear any words spoken.

A ridiculous thought crosses my mind. It’s like he’s trying to absorb the elements, to distill energy from them.

I grab my camera, my fingers moving on autopilot, and snap photo after photo, the image of him burning into my retina.

This version of Rex Anderson—raw, rough, and complicated—feels like the real him.

What are you hiding? Why are you hiding?

His eyes snap open, and he stares at the cerulean seas. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Spin a story in our favor. Call Lana and reword as you see fit.”

Gregory takes out his phone. “Ready when you are, sir.”

“Imagine a once-in-a-lifetime, mythical experience. The Temple of Apollo, an immersive auditory adventure set inside a reconstructed Grecian temple on the open seas.”

An electrifying energy pulses from him as he weaves invisible threads to form a bewitching tapestry. “The Oracle of Delphi has learned of the prestigious individuals aboard this vessel and will bless us with her presence a millennium after she appeared in ancient Greece. She offers us the rare opportunity—delivering prophecies to the guests.”

“Prophecies, sir?” Gregory blanches. “H-How are we—”

“Honestly, I don’t fucking care. Get fortune cookies if you need to and make them sound fancy. There’s nothing old money likes more than learning they are destined for greatness. Feeds their ego.”

I stifle a snort. He isn’t wrong there.

“Got it.”