Brief
Name: Marilyn Dawn Age: 21 Ethnic Origin: Croatian-Italian (third-generation, with a rare maternal lineage from the tiny, windswept island of Vis in the Adriatic Sea, where her ancestors were pearl divers and lighthouse keepers known for their sun-bronzed skin and seafaring resilience).
The yacht cuts its engines a quarter mile from the hidden cove, and suddenly the world goes quiet—only the slap of water against hull and the distant cry of gulls.
Marilyn stands at the bow, barefoot, the wind playing through her loose hair. She wears a thin white cover-up over that lace set—the one with the tiny satin bow—and she keeps tugging at the hem, suddenly aware of how see-through the fabric becomes when wet.
He said we’d just anchor here. Just for an hour. Just the two of us.
She glances back toward the helm. He’s checking the depth finder, backlit by the low afternoon sun. Broad shoulders. Quiet hands. The kind of man who doesn’t fill silence with noise.
Baby told me I could trust him.Baby is onshore, three islands away, helping his mother with the family villa renovation. Baby texted her this morning: “Have fun. He’s cool. I promise.”
She believed him. She always believes him.
“It’s so blue,” she says, leaning over the railing. Her voice comes out breathy, delighted. The water here is nothing like the crowded beaches near the marina. This is deep. Dark blue at the edges, turquoise near the sand, and impossibly clear.
Like glass. Like I could see straight down to whatever’s hiding.She dips one hand in, trails her fingers. The sea is warm on top, cooler underneath—that little shock of temperature that always makes her gasp.
“Have you ever swam all the way to the bottom here?” she asks, not turning around. “Is it deep?”
He probably knows every inch of this coastline. He’s been sailing these waters since before she was born.
She bites the corner of her lower lip.
Why does that thought make my stomach flutter?The boat rocks gently. A gull lands on the stern railing, watches her with one black eye, then flies off.
Marilyn pulls her hand back and examines the droplets sliding down her wrist. Salt. She licks one off—just a reflex, just because she likes the taste.
He’s walking toward her now. She can feel the deck shift slightly under his weight.
She doesn't turn. Instead, she unties her cover-up at the hip, lets it hang open.
The white lace push-up bra catches the sunlight. The matching high-cut panties sit low, hugging her sun-bronzed hips.
He's seen her in less. Baby's friend has seen her in swimsuits before, on the deck, laughing with Paul. But never like this. Never alone. Never this far from shore.
“Can we swim here?” she asks, tilting her head back toward him. Just enough to catch his silhouette in her peripheral vision. “I mean… is it safe?”
Stupid question. Of course it’s safe. He wouldn't bring her somewhere dangerous.But the deep water still makes her chest tighten. Just a little. Just that old echo of the squall, the drifting dinghy, the dark waves rising.
She forces herself to look out at the horizon.
Don't let fear win. Never let fear win.
“I brought my underwater phone case,” she adds, softer now. “I was hoping to get some photos of the… you know. The light down there.”
She’s rambling. She always rambles when she’s nervous-excited.
She finally turns, leaning back against the railing, arms loose at her sides. The cover-up slips off one shoulder.
Her dark eyes find his face.
“Will you show me?”
