Page 1 of A Perfect Disaster

1

HELEN

June 2026.

I board the Marine IV with a folder firmly tucked under my arm, my uniform crisply pressed, and a conviction lodged deep in my chest: this cruise cannot go wrong. It must not go wrong. In fact, I won’t let anything ruin it. The morning sun spills across the deck like a golden sheet, illuminating every surface with an almost blinding glow, and for a second I have to squint to adjust to so much light.

I inhale the mix of scents that’s always on the ship before we set sail and count in my head. One, two, three. It works. It almost always works to ground me and help me regain control.

“You look very serious, security officer on board,” Gonzalo murmurs playfully behind me as he hoists a heavy box of reflective vests. “Are you okay? Because anyone who looks at you is going to be scared out of their wits.”

I turn toward him with a raised eyebrow, maintaining my composure at all times.

“Perfect. That’s exactly the effect I’m going for on my first day here.”

Gonzalo smiles, and yes, he manages to irritate me, because it’s obvious he hasn’t spent three nights in a row reviewing evacuation routes, emergency drills, floor plans, maintenance reports, and endless staff rosters until the letters started dancing around in his head like ants in a choreographed routine.

“Well, congratulations, boss,” he teases again. “If the ship catches fire, the fire will politely apologize and put itself out just to avoid upsetting you.”

I don’t want to laugh, but I do a little, just a little, just enough to seem human and not like a walking robot.

“If the ship catches fire, don’t even think about making a joke,” I reply as I walk into the main corridor without stopping. “You’ll follow protocol B-17, section three, point four, to the letter and without skipping a single comma. Is that clear?”

“How romantic,” he replies sarcastically.

“I’m a dream come true,” I say, just as sarcastically.

“More like a nightmare with high-level credentials.”

I glare at him, but before he can see me, Gonzalo has already moved ahead toward the technical area. Sometimes I’m truly grateful he exists. Not just because he’s competent at his job—which he is—but because he knows how to make me smile or breathe a sigh of relief when I’ve forgotten how to breathe. And I’ve spent weeks not quite knowing how to do that, holding back the pressure, the expectations, and the fear of failing again.

This cruise is important. Not important in the routine sense that you have to do it right, but truly important—the kind that marks a turning point in your professional career. “If this goes wrong, Helen, you’ll be starting from scratch again.” Once again with half-packed suitcases, cabins that never quite feel like home, and bosses who promise you with fake smiles that they’ll keep you in mind for the next permanent position, like someone throwing candy from a carnival float.

What I call a super-perfect future.

The truth is, I’m tired of proving over and over again that I’m good at what I do, that I don’t make serious mistakes like so many others have, that I can coordinate teams under pressure, defuse crises before they spiral out of control, and stay calm when everyone around me is losing their cool. I’m especially tired of always being the temporary one, the one who fills in gaps but never settles into a permanent role.

Transmarine’s headquarters has been evaluating candidates for months for the new position of onshore operational safety supervisor, among others. A stable position, with set hours, my own desk, and the chance to have a plant that will probably die on me because I’ve never been able to care for anything that depends on me for more than two weeks straight. But at least it would be mine. And that’s why this cruise is my definitive calling card, and I fully intend to hand it in flawlessly, without a single blemish that could tarnish my track record.

I walk through the interior of the Marine IV with the roster open in my hands, reviewing the names of the crew organized by department. Everything seems to be in its proper place and under control—until it suddenly isn’t. I come to a screeching halt in the middle of the corridor, my finger frozen on a name that shouldn’t be there under any circumstances.

“Maika Aranda. Entertainment Coordinator.”

For a moment, the entire ship seems to tilt beneath my feet, even though I know perfectly well that it remains docked, solid, enormous, and perfectly stable. I’m the one who loses her balance, and the sensation runs down my spine like an unexpected chill.

“No…” I murmur.

The word escapes me so quietly I can barely hear it, but I feel it rising from a dark, ancient place, covered in dust, resentment, and memories I’d rather not have to stir up. I read the name again, as if the paper might correct itself or the ink might rearrange itself. But it doesn’t happen. The name is still there, insolent and immovable, exactly like her.

“Maika.” The last time I saw her, she was wearing ridiculous earrings that drew too much attention, a smile capable of ruining the most sensible decisions, and an absolutely criminal knack for turning any situation into chaos with background music. At first, there was tension between us. I don’t like to admit it even now, but there was. That kind of tension that arises when someone irritates you deeply and yet you notice every time they walk into a room. The kind that leads you to argue over nonsense just to have an excuse to keep looking at them. The kind that a prudent person ignores and an idiot feeds without restraint.

I tried to be sensible. But Maika was simply Maika, with all her intensity.

And in the end, I became an idiot.

Then came that massive event. Thousands of attendees, last-minute changes, a poorly marked secondary stage, and an impromptu decision on her part that completely disrupted the flow of traffic. People piled up where they shouldn’t have, the security team had to intervene hastily, and the executives looked for someone to blame. And they blamed me, of course. I clearly remember the conference room, my superiors’ tense faces, my report open on the table, and Maika silent on the other side, with an expression that never told me anything. Maybe she felt guilt. Fear. Cowardice. All mixed together. But in the end, I bore the brunt of the disaster. And she disappeared.

And now she’s here, on my ship, my last real chance to get the job I want so badly.