The next morning, the sun rose bright and harsh over Princeville.

The light cut through the floor-to-ceiling glass of the villa. Down in the bay, the water looked calm, but I could hear the waves crashing against the volcanic cliffs in the distance.

Everyone was at the long teak dining table for breakfast. Jaxton and Porter drank black coffee in silence. Lachlan was reviewing our dive route on his tablet. Then Arlet walked in, carrying a stack of glossy color printouts.

She sat down right next to Lachlan and spread the papers across the wood.

“Check this out,” Arlet said with a bright smile. She tapped a neat, blue line on the paper. “This is the depth profile from my cave run in Maui last month. Look at the curve right here.”

Jaxton leaned over his mug. “Clean ascent rate.”

“The Garmin did all the work,” Arlet said, beaming. She turned her wrist to show off the sleek black screen. “The real-time decompression algorithm adjusted every two seconds. It takes all the guesswork out of the dark. You don’t have to think. You just follow the display.”

Lachlan nodded, eyes fixed on her screen. He looked like an eager student watching a master.

Then Arlet turned her head and looked at me. Her smile was sweet and smooth.

Her eyes dropped to my left wrist.

“Your watch is so *classic*, Margot,” she said softly. “I love that you still wear it.”

Jaxton looked down at his plate. Porter took a sudden sip of water. Neither of them met my eyes.

“It works,” I said.

“It’s totally retro,” Arlet added, letting out a little laugh. “Like something from an old documentary. It has so much history.”

Lachlan didn't say a word. He didn't defend the watch. He just kept staring at Arlet’s neat digital charts.

A few minutes later, breakfast was over. The others stepped out onto the lanai to check the wind conditions. I stayed behind to clear the table. As I reached across the island counter for the glass coffee pot, Lachlan stepped up beside me.

His hand came out. His fingers brushed against the scratched stainless-steel band on my wrist.

He didn't hold it with care. He just pushed it slightly with his thumb.

“You should really upgrade that antique,” he said offhandedly.

My hand froze around the handle of the coffee pot.

*Antique.*

Two years ago, in a quiet cove in San Diego, Lachlan had taken that exact watch into his hands. It had belonged to Cristian Allen, the coach who died pushing me toward the sun. Lachlan had brought the steel case to his mouth and kissed the scratched metal.

*“I’ll spend my life keeping you safe,”* he had whispered into my neck back then. *“You’ll never have to fight for air again.”*

Now, he didn't even look at my face. He grabbed his sunglasses from the counter, slipped them on, and walked out the sliding glass door to join Arlet.

My heart thudded against my ribs. A cold knot formed in my stomach.

I couldn't just keep quiet. Not about this.

That afternoon, while the rest of the crew was checking their fins by the pool, I went to our bedroom. I unzipped my duffel bag and pulled out my field notebook.

It was an old, battered thing with frayed edges and water-stained leather. The early pages were filled with my competitive dives—times, depths, water temperatures, and Cristian’s sharp notes in the margins. But the last three pages were different.

They held notes from my pulmonologist.

The handwriting was clean and clinical. *Bilateral pulmonary fibrosis. Irreversible alveolar damage. Strict ceiling: 30 feet. Extreme danger of barotrauma and lung collapse beyond shallow recreational limits.*

I carried the open notebook out to the back terrace. Lachlan was alone at a wooden table, checking the o-rings on his regulator.

I set the open notebook directly in front of him.

“Lachlan,” I said. My voice was low, but I made sure it didn't shake. “You need to look at this.”

He looked up from his gear, his eyebrows pulling together in an annoyed line. “Margot, I’m prepping the lines.”

“Just read it,” I pleaded, pointing my finger at the doctor's stamp. “Thirty feet. That is not a suggestion. It’s my physical limit. The pressure at one hundred and twenty feet will crush the scarred tissue. I won’t be able to draw air.”

I waited for his anger. I waited for him to snap at me and call me difficult again.

Instead, Lachlan’s expression softened.

He set his screwdriver down on the table. He reached out and covered my cold hand with his warm palm. He gave me a gentle, reassuring smile.

“I've read your files, Margot,” he said. His voice was smooth and calm. “I know what they say.”

I blinked, caught off guard. “Then why are you pushing this?”

“Because that was four years ago,” he whispered. He squeezed my fingers, looking straight into my eyes with genuine affection. “You’ve been in rehab for four years. You walk five miles every day. You're stronger than you think.”

The warmth in his voice was like a trap. For a single, dangerous second, I felt a wave of relief wash over me. I wanted so badly to believe him. I wanted to believe he saw strength in me, not weakness.

“Lachlan, scarring doesn't heal—”

“Trust me,” he interrupted gently, patting my hand. “I’ll be right beside you the whole time. Nothing is going to happen to you. Okay?”

He stood up, kissed my forehead, and walked toward the pool.

I stood alone in the Hawaiian sun. The paper beneath my hands fluttered in the sea breeze.

I slowly pulled my hand back. I closed the notebook, walked back into the dark bedroom, and zipped it away inside my suitcase.

I told myself he wouldn't let anything happen to me.

It was the biggest lie I ever told.

From up here, above the gray swell of the Pacific, the memories came back without mercy.

I remembered when Lachlan truly loved me. Or when I thought he did.

Right after the Catalina rescue, my world was small and painful. I had to learn how to breathe all over again. Lachlan was there for every minute of it. He drove me to pulmonary rehab three mornings a week. He never complained. When the nurses handed me my spirometry printouts, Lachlan would take them, fold them carefully, and stick them to our refrigerator door with a little yellow magnet.

*Look at that volume increase,* he used to say, kissing the top of my head. *We’re getting you back, baby.*

Once, at a dive bar down in San Pedro, an old competitor saw me sipping water in a booth. The guy had too many beers and laughed. He called me washed up. He said I was damaged goods now.

Lachlan didn’t hesitate. He crossed the floor and punched the guy so hard his barstool tipped over. Lachlan split his knuckles open on the man’s jaw. Afterward, sitting on the curb while the sirens wailed in the distance, he wrapped his bleeding hand around mine.

*Nobody talks about you like that,* he whispered. *I’ll always protect you.*

I believed him. I held onto those words like an anchor.

I didn't realize anchors could pull you straight to the bottom.

His forgetting didn't happen all at once. It was a slow, quiet rot.

It started around six months ago, right after Arlet slid into his life. At first, it was just comments. Then it was shared gear, shared sponsors, and shared trips.

One evening, three weeks before we came to Kauai, I made dinner. I spent two hours making fresh ahi poke with scallions and sesame oil. I set a big bowl in front of him.

Lachlan barely looked down. He was staring at his phone.

A video was playing on his screen. It was an Instagram reel Arlet had just posted from a reef dive off Maui. The lighting was perfect. The water was crystalline blue. Arlet was wearing a tiny black wetsuit, smiling at the camera as she ascended. Lachlan was right next to her, glowing and handsome, giving a confident thumbs-up.

The screen looped. The upbeat pop music played again.

Lachlan watched it once. Then twice. Then a third time. A small, proud smile curved his lips.

Across the table, I swallowed a mouthful of rice. My throat felt like sandpaper.

At the bottom of the video, Arlet had typed out their dive stats.

*Reef drop: 70 ft.*

Seventy feet.

It was more than twice my absolute limit. If I went down seventy feet, the air sacs in my lungs would tear open. Lachlan used to have that number memorized. He used to repeat it to boat captains before we even dropped anchor.

Now, he just tapped the screen, looped the video a fourth time, and never said a single word about the depth.

He didn't care anymore. My scars were no longer a battle badge he could brag about protecting. They were just a nuisance holding him back from looking cool online.

The night before the cave dive, the villa was dead quiet.

The ocean wind blew hard against the glass doors. I was standing near the edge of the dark living room, watching the shadows stretch across the wooden floor.

Out on the lanai, Jaxton Berry was checking his dive harness under the outdoor lights. Lachlan walked out with a fresh drink in his hand, ice clinking against the glass.

Jaxton looked up. He hesitated for a second, his thick shoulders tense. He had been a Navy rescue swimmer. He knew what water could do to human lungs.

“Hey, Lachlan,” Jaxton said. His voice was low and cautious.

Lachlan stopped, taking a slow sip. “Yeah?”

“About tomorrow,” Jaxton said. He wiped his hands on his shorts. “The volcanic cavern. Nā Pali has heavy surge, and we’re dropping past a hundred feet.”

“I know the dive plan, Jax.”

“Right,” Jaxton said, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s just... did anyone review Margot’s medical history before committing to that depth? Last I heard, she had serious lung trauma.”

A tight, cold look flickered across Lachlan’s face. He didn't like being questioned, especially not by his crew.

“She’s fine,” Lachlan said immediately. His voice was sharp and flat. “I know her better than anyone. She's just being cautious because she hasn't been in deep water for a while. I’ve got it handled.”

Jaxton opened his mouth, clearly wanting to push back.

Before he could speak, the glass door slid open.

Arlet stepped out onto the deck. She moved without a sound. She was wearing an oversized linen shirt, holding two chilled cocktail glasses between her fingers. She smiled warmly at both of them, her eyes soft in the patio lights.

“Here you go,” Arlet said sweetly, handing one glass to Lachlan. She brushed her shoulder against his arm.

Then she turned to Jaxton with an innocent, reassuring tilt of her head.

“I was just talking to Margot inside,” Arlet said softly. Her smile was full of bright encouragement. “She told me she’s actually really excited about tomorrow. I think she just needs everyone to believe in her. You know how she gets when she feels left out.”

It was so smooth. So clean. She turned my life-or-death warning into petty female insecurity.

Jaxton froze. He looked over Arlet’s shoulder toward Porter, who was sitting silently on a lounge chair by the railing.

Porter didn't say a word. He kept his eyes locked firmly onto the wooden deck, staring at his own bare feet.

Jaxton took a slow breath. He looked at Lachlan’s cold face, then at Arlet’s sweet smile.

He closed his mouth. He picked up his harness and looked away.

Neither of them said another word.

I stood in the dark behind the glass, my ghost fingers resting on the cold pane.

The trap was already shut. And nobody was going to open it.

At two in the morning, the villa was drowning in silence.

From above the patio, I watched Jaxton Berry sit alone in the dark.

A single glass of bourbon sat on the glass coffee table in front of him. The ice had melted hours ago, leaving a pale, watery ring on the surface. Jaxton didn’t drink. He just leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, staring out at the black Pacific.

The waves below hit the cliffs with a low, steady rumble.

A screen door clicked. Porter Wilson stepped onto the lanai in gray sweatpants and bare feet. He looked pale in the faint moonlight, his hair messy from sleep.

He froze when he saw Jaxton.

For ten long seconds, neither of them said a word.

Jaxton slowly raised his head. He looked straight at Porter. It wasn't an angry look. It was worse. It was the tired, hollow look of a man who knew a car was about to crash and was choosing not to grab the wheel.

Porter swallowed hard. His throat bobbed. He didn’t ask why Jaxton was awake. He didn’t mention the dive, or Lachlan, or me. He just held Jaxton’s gaze until the weight of it became too much.

Then Porter looked down at his own feet. He turned around without making a sound, slid the door shut, and disappeared back into the villa.

Jaxton didn’t call after him.

He stood up and walked to the edge of the deck. He gripped the wooden railing with both hands, his knuckles turning white against the dark cedar. His chest rose and fell in shallow, jagged breaths.

I hovered close enough to see the sweat glistening on his temples.

I knew that posture. Jaxton had spent six years as a Navy rescue swimmer. He knew what drowning looked like. He knew what lung trauma did to a body under three atmospheres of pressure.

Most of all, he knew the feeling in his gut. It was the exact same sick, heavy dread he had felt eight years ago in Coronado, the night before a routine training drill went bad and his dive partner never came back up.

Jaxton squeezed the railing until his forearms trembled.

He knew. Every instinct in his trained body was screaming that tomorrow was a disaster waiting to happen.

But Lachlan paid for the boat. Lachlan booked the villa. Lachlan was the golden boy everyone wanted to impress.

Jaxton stared out into the dark water, took one last breath of night air, and said nothing.

***

By eight the next morning, the sky was a bright, cruel blue.

Our twin-engine dive boat cut through the swell off the Nā Pali Coast. The red volcanic cliffs shot straight out of the water like jagged teeth. Sea spray whipped across the deck, smelling of diesel fuel and salt.

I stood on the starboard side, checking my harness with stiff, wooden fingers. My heart was pounding hard against my ribs.

On the opposite bench, Arlet was completely in her element.

She wore a sleek black wetsuit with gold seams. Her hair was braided back tight and neat. Strapped to her right wrist was the new Garmin dive computer.

She tapped the screen with the tip of her finger. The device beeped twice, crisp and clear.

“Decompression profile loaded,” Arlet said aloud, smiling at her screen.

She turned the casing slightly, checking the tiny, pinhole camera lens built into the top edge of the bezel. She adjusted the wide-angle setting, checking the HD video feed on the digital face. It was clean. Crisp. Ready to capture every single frame in ultra-high resolution.

Across the deck, Lachlan was adjusting his weight belt. He looked over at Arlet and gave her an approving nod.

Then Arlet looked up. Her eyes found mine.

Her face softened instantly into an expression of warm, sisterly warmth. She stood up, steadying herself against the boat's roll with practiced ease, and walked across the deck to my side.

“Hey, Margot,” she said, her voice dripping with sweet concern.

I pulled my strap tight. “Yeah?”

“I was thinking,” she said, tilting her head. She laid a gentle, sun-warmed hand on my shoulder. “Why don’t we buddy up for the descent?”

I looked at her hand. Then I looked at her eyes. They were wide and bright, hiding nothing and everything all at once.

“Lachlan is leading the route,” Arlet added, talking fast and soft. “Jaxton and Porter are taking the sweep. I can stay right next to you. If anything feels off, or if your chest gets tight, just signal me. I’ll be your wingman.”

It was poetry. It sounded like pure protection.

Behind us, Lachlan smiled. “That’s a great idea, Arlet. Margot, stay with her. Don’t go wandering off.”

I didn't answer him.

I reached down and touched the steel casing of Cristian’s watch on my left wrist. The metal was cool against my skin.

*Breathe, and never stop rising.*

I pulled my mask down over my face. I bit into the rubber mouthpiece of my regulator and tasted the dry, metallic air from the tank.

I turned around, sat on the edge of the gunwale, and let myself fall backward into the dark blue sea.

From above the water, my ghost watched Arlet roll in right after me.

She didn't stay beside me. The moment we submerged, she kicked her long carbon fins and slid three feet behind my left shoulder.

She positioned herself behind me because a camera pointed at my back captures everything in front of it.