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.