Being with family should have taken the edge off what happened at the villa, but last night we boarded the mega yacht in the Med; and with twenty-seven family members on the ship, I’m feeling the heat of almost everyone’s whispers and silent sympathy.

It’s heavy.

And not what I wanted to bring onto a family vacation. On the main deck, sleek white cushions and couches cluster around a five-foot deep pool. Cooling off in the waters, I perch my elbows out of the pool on a towel.

My thumb marks the place in a paperback: Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics, but I train my eyes straight ahead. Where an overhang shades a circular table with fourteen plush chairs, and right behind that seating area, sliding glass doors lead to the main saloon.

SFO had a debate on the pronunciation of saloon, but Oscar shut it down quickly and let everyone know it’s pronounced “salon.”

I have a good view inside that saloon, and I see Farrow side-by-side with Dr. Rowin Hart. Both treat severe sunburns. Red fiery blisters are puckered on Winona’s shoulders and arms. Ben looks worse, fire-engine red legs swollen like logs. Both of them used some kind of knockoff organic sunscreen, and it didn’t do its job.

Rowin cleans a popped blister, and Farrow has been trying to keep Ben’s fever down. I watch as Rowin says something to my boyfriend.

But I’m out of earshot.

I notice Farrow rolling his eyes and replying back. He snaps off his gloves.

You don’t know how much I dislike Rowin Hart. I wouldn’t put him in the Voldemort category, but my aversion towards Farrow’s ex-boyfriend has been a rising tide. Especially now that Farrow is officially on the med team with Rowin.

These feelings I feel—it’s not jealousy.

It’s fear.

Rowin isn’t pining after my boyfriend. It’s clear that he despises Farrow, and I see that raw, emotional pain flare up in Rowin’s eyes every time he converses with him. It puts me on edge. On guard.

After all the shit Farrow and I have gone through, I can’t let his ex hurt him. Physically, verbally, all of the fucking above.

“Happy Birthday, Moffy.” My uncle’s smooth voice tears my glare away from Rowin.

Connor towers above me in navy swim trunks, his poise and stature god-like. My dad jokes about how Uncle Connor is immortal since he only looks better with age.

“Thanks,” I say to him.

Today is July 13^th, and I’m now twenty-three-years-old. If I contemplate that too hard, I’ll fall into some sort of philosophical stupor. So I try not to.

And I think there must be something else my uncle wants. Connor could’ve just yelled happy birthday across the yacht deck like half my family already did. Which has been a good distraction. Seriously. Every time I start thinking about all the outside bullshit, someone else howls happy birthday, Moffy! and tears me back to real life. To right here. Right now.

Connor squats so we’re more eye-level. “The lawyers just called me,” he says. “They’ve stopped most of the pictures from leaking. All that exists is the one photo, and that’ll be it.” His deep blue eyes soften with soothing powers. “I’m so sorry.”

The one photo.

It was my full frontal. But in the one that’s been circulating, my crotch was blurred, and as far as I know, no one has been able to find the uncensored image.

I should be happy that the world hasn’t seen my dick. But really, I hate that a money-hungry company has tarnished one of the best weeks of my life.

So no, I’m not really happy.

But I also recognize I’m talking to a man that had much worse happen to him. “Thanks for the help,” I tell my uncle. “I guess I should be glad it wasn’t worse.”

“A violation of privacy is a violation,” Uncle Connor says. “It doesn’t matter the severity. It’s okay to be upset, even in front of me.”

When he was in his twenties, sex videos of him and his soon-to-be wife were illegally recorded and released. And Christ, I just can’t imagine that type of invasion. If Farrow and I had been filmed and that leaked, I’d be devastated. It’s why our families are uneasy around porn companies.

“I’m not upset, I’m pissed,” I tell Connor. “Like really goddamn pissed.” I run a hand through my wet hair. “But I don’t want to talk about it. I just…want to forget it.”

Uncle Connor nods, understanding. “If you ever change your mind”—he rises to stand—“I’m always here.”

I thank him again, and he walks off towards the saloon. Eighteen-year-old Tom and Eliot jump out from behind the mini bar, trying to scare him, and their dad just blinks at them. Unfazed.

I try to spot Farrow through the glass doors. But I don’t see him.

Suddenly, water splashes behind me. Wetting my paperback.

I feel his hands on my waist and his chin on my shoulder. His chest presses up against my back, and I try to restrain a smile.

But I fail as soon as he places a kiss on the side of my neck. “You’re tense, wolf scout,” he breathes, kneading my muscles with the heel of his palm. Goddamn.

My waist knocks into the pool wall, my blood hot. Craning my head over my shoulder, I catch the amusement in his eyes. His bleach-white hair looks darker wet, and beads of water roll down the light stubble on his jaw and inked wings on his neck.

His barbell piercing rises at me with his brown brows. But his smile fades fast. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

“You and Rowin.”

He cringes, but he doesn’t drop his hands. “Not my favorite phrase. Let’s actually remove it from your lexicon.”

“You work together,” I remind him. “You’re going to be around him, and my trust level with strangers has about plummeted to negative-infinity.”

He nods slowly, and his hands work their magic on my traps, gentle on my bad shoulder. Whatever he’s doing feels too damn good.

I add, “You shouldn’t be around someone who’s made it clear they literally hate you. Not only is that a toxic work environment, but Christ, he could fucking hurt you.” I have more to say. So I abandon my paperback.

And I turn around completely. Facing him now, his hands fall off my back and clutch my waist beneath the water.

“I don’t trust him,” I continue while Farrow never breaks eye contact. “I know if I go to my parents and ask for him to be fired, it’s going to seem like I’m a jealous boyfriend. But after the villa, after you’ve been doxxed, I can’t watch you share space with that guy.”

Farrow waits for me to finish, still nonchalant. Like I just announced today’s forecast. “Done?”

I add one final thing, “But if you’re utterly against it, I’ll try not to do anything.” It’ll be hard.

“Okay, working with Rowin is irritating at most,” Farrow says. “He’s not going to murder me and throw me overboard. Plus, I’m stronger than him.”

“Great,” I say dryly.

He smiles. “But if this is something you need to do, I’m behind you. Always.”

That feels good.

I nod a few times. “After this trip, I’ll make it happen.” Getting Rowin fired while he’s on a free vacation in Greece seems callous for some reason.

My voice fades as one of my younger cousins races across the deck, darting past us and yelling, “Happy Birthday, Moffy!”

It brings me back to this morning. When Farrow gave me my birthday present. He bent down in front of me and rolled up the hem of my drawstring pants. Revealing the holster strapped to my ankle.

And Farrow pulled out my tactical knife.

When he stood up, he said, “Your present is on your ankle.”

I didn’t understand until I reached for my ankle and I realized he slipped a new knife in the holster. One that he bought in Mykonos. The wooden hilt is carved in intricate patterns.

He knew I loved it. And I didn’t conceal the fact that I did. I just kissed the fuck out of my boyfriend. And the delivery of the present got to me as much as the actual knife. No wrapping paper or bag.

Farrow Redford Keene’s movements were all over that birthday gift. My brain loves that to death. I replay the way he bent down and smiled up at me on repeat.

“Maximoff.” Farrow splashes water at my chest.

I wake up from a slight daydream, but he’s not teasing me about it. I follow his ultra-focused gaze across the main deck.

Fucking Christ no.

Gray hair pulled into a bun, string of pearls around a wrinkled neck, and a strawberry daiquiri in hand—nothing good can come from talking to my Grandmother Calloway.

She plays favorites with her four daughters. And that hierarchy directly affects me and my siblings and my cousins. I’ll give you the breakdown.

1. Rose Calloway – Jane’s mom

2. Poppy Calloway

3. Daisy Calloway – Sullivan’s mom

4. Lily Calloway – my mom is dead last. Always.

Before I make eye contact with Grandmother Calloway, I come up with a kindergarten idea. But if you knew my grandmother like I know her, you’d do the same.

I tell Farrow, “Under. Now. Hold your breath.” Quickly, I dip beneath the water, avoiding someone who should be avoided. At all costs.

It takes me a solid second to realize that Farrow isn’t coming down with me.