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Once enough people see our flyers,the marina will surely turn down their lights.
I navigate the yacht, hidden behind my masquerade mask. I move with purpose, finding discreet spots to hide the papers, ensuring they find their way into the hands of those who need to know.
As I stroll past the elegantly set tables, I spot a folded napkin made of delicate silk. With a quick, unassuming movement, I tuck one of the turtle papers beneath the napkin, creating a surprise message for the diner who lifts the napkin during the evening's festivities.
Then, I find a large potted plant among the lush greenery decorating the yacht. I slip another paper between the leaves, hoping a curious partygoer will discover the message while admiring the plant.
As I cross the dance floor, I scatter a handful of them so the papers will get stuck to the guests’ shoes. Then, I notice that the yacht's plush seating arrangements provide an opportunity too good to pass up. I skillfully slide a paper beneath a decorative cushion, hidden from plain sight. Whoever sits there might be in for an unexpected message when they rise.
I feel a sense of responsibility with each paper I place, silently hoping these messages will open their hearts and minds, inspiring action to bring change.
I reach into my purse again, but my hands land on nothing but empty fabric.
Okay then, mission accomplished.
I make my way to the bar, which is surrounded by people in obscure masquerade masks. I find Lily quickly, and she grins mischievously as I approach.
“There you go, Em,” she says, her voice barely audible over the music. “Our little eco-mission is complete. Now, what do you say we stick around for a drink?”
I hesitate, my eyes still darting around the party, watching the guests enjoy themselves. But Lily's infectious enthusiasm and the success of our mission persuade me.
“Alright,” I agree with a smile, surrendering to the idea of letting loose for a while.
Lily orders our drinks, and we clink glasses in a silent toast to our accomplishment. The rhythm of the music pulses through the luxurious yacht.
“To the turtles,” Lily whispers with a wink, and I can't help but chuckle in agreement.
Then, before I can protest, Lily pulls me toward the dance floor. I follow her lead, the rhythmic beats of the music growing louder with each step. The intoxicating atmosphere envelops us as we join the lively crowd, a sea of masked faces lost in the music's embrace. The pulsating lights cast vibrant patterns on the floor, enhancing the sense of being transported to another world.
Lily and I begin to dance, our movements synchronized in the pulsing rhythm of the night. We twirl and sway, our laughter mingling with the music. The energy is infectious, and for a while, all that matters is the present moment.
Then, as Lily whirls away, lost in the music and the crowd, I find myself momentarily alone.
That's when I notice him.
A striking man with dark hair, his mask adding an air of mystery to his appearance, sitting at the bar. His gaze is fixed on me, and our eyes meet across the dimly lit room.
For a heartbeat, time seems to stand still.
Chapter two
Alex
Iglare down into my glass of Macallan 18, a wishful sigh escaping my lips as I contemplate its rich, amber depths. The smooth, aged whiskey swirls enticingly, its alluring aroma an oasis of sophistication among the chaos. I can't help but crave the solitude of my own yacht, where I could savor this elixir in peace.
But reality has other plans. I'm not on my yacht tonight; I'm on my buddy Benjamin Hawthorne’s yacht, wearing a ridiculous mask for the masquerade party. And Ben—well, his idea of a good time is vastly different from mine.
So here I am—surrounded by the pulsating thump of the music, the blinding glow of the lights, and the constant chatter of a crowd…none of which is concurrent with my mood. I look up and adjust my mask as I watch the pumping party around me.
My buddy, Chris, is perched on the adjacent barstool. His red hair glows in the neon lights as he idly sips an espresso martini. His expression mirrors my own, a tinge of boredom creeping around the edges. Chris usually doesn't mind the partying, buttonight, he's wearing the shadows of fatigue under his eyes from the long hours he'd put in the day before.
I decide to break the silence with a sigh.
“You know, Chris,” I begin, raising my voice a little to be heard over the music, “this whole thing...not really our scene, is it?”
Chris glances at me, a smile quaking at the corner of his mouth. He adjusts his masquerade mask so that it rests evenly on top of his prescription glasses. Then, he responds, “You're right on the mark.” He casually taps the bar top with his fingers as he continues, “But hey, at least we have good taste in drinks, right?” He lifts his martini glass in a half-hearted toast, and I nod in agreement.
I look away from the commotion around me and inadvertently lock eyes with my own reflection in the glass mirror that stretches behind the gleaming bottles of liquor at the bar. The image before me is that of a forty-two-year-old man, a striking contrast to the youthful partygoers around Chris and me, although my masquerade mask conceals a part of my face.
