Page 12 of Why Cruise

Sunrise Yoga on the Sunshine Deck (6:00 AM)

Omega Orientation - Sapphire Lounge (9:00 AM) Essential information for our omega guests. Learn about our state-of-the-art facilities and specialized support services.

Beta Orientation - Sapphire Lounge (11:00 AM)

AFTERNOON TIDE

Poolside Games & Music (12:00 PM - 4:00 PM)

Alpha Orientation - Sapphire Lounge (2:00 PM)

Grand Welcome Dinner - Crystal Ballroom (7:00 PM)

Tonight’s Welcome Dinner features a specially curated menu by our executive chef. Wine pairings available. Hosted by Aria and Captain Sencho. Casual elegant attire suggested.

Justice

Fuck me.

I had the shakes like a junkie about to shoot up in front of the Pax. No. Worse. Like junior dev pushing untested code to production. The kind of tremors that made the board whisper about “stress leave” and “temporary leadership.”

It had been only fourteen hours since Daisy’s little virus had bricked my phone. The fact that she’d used our own legacy code against me had a kind of poetry to it. I wasn’t going to demean myself by going to the ship’s sad excuse for a business center. It would be my luck that some chronically online insta-troll would snap a pic of me at a public computer terminal. I’d have to deal with Port Haven’s gossip industrial complex gushing about “Tech Mogul Justice Twill Experiences Public Computing Like a Pleb.” Daisy would wallpaper my office with it, right next to the framed “Port Haven’s 10 Most Eligible” with my entry as Number 10 circled in red. Every time I took it down, she hung it right back up.

I had hit the gym instead and abused myself on the treadmill for a while, not knowing what else to do with myself. There was a private dining room I could have gone to, but the main buffet was more convenient. At least here I could pretend I was still in control of something.

Shit. Was I sweating now too? I wiped my forehead with an unused napkin and pushed my plate away. The two over-easy eggs were suddenly unappealing. Here I was, sitting at a buffet with unlimited choices, and I defaulted to usual, like a robot.

I cracked open my blank notebook and clicked the cheap ballpoint. I had bullied Todd the Butler into basically breaking into the gift shop last night to buy one for me. I ran my hand over the creamy paper with the cruise line logo on the bottom corners. I used to always carry a Moleskine notebook on me. The entire engineering department had. We thought going analog was super edgy while we created the technology that would define the next decade. I always reserved the first page for big ideas. I left that blank and turned to the next.

The cheap pen would have to do, though. It didn’t glide across the paper. Maybe Todd would know where to get a fountain pen.

Why the fuck would I choose eggs?

Do I even like eggs?

I wrote the two sentences across that page, then crossed them out with a decisive strike-through. Great, now I was bemoaning my life like a teenage Dear Diary entry. Next, I’d be posting cryptic status updates about my “feelings” with a moody pic of my latte or some shit.

I stretched back and ran my fingers through my hair. I wondered if they had a barber on the ship. I think the last time I had a haircut was when Daisy stuffed me in a tux for some charity event where I had to convince old money that my new money wasn’t a threat to their ecosystem. The worst part of being a CEO was all the hand-shaking, cheek-kissingand nonsensical conversation with people who had more money than god. I had money, but most of my assets were basically imaginary and didn’t have a chance of manifesting in reality without venture capital funds from people who were actually rich.

I pushed my plate away. The eggs had gone cold. I closed the notebook and set the pen precisely on the center of the cover and headed for the toast station. Maybe carbs would help with the technology withdrawal.

“Oh no, I hate mushrooms. I can’t eat them.” The soft voice caught my attention, followed immediately by her scent. It was citrus but more floral, delicate but somehow able to overpower the cooked bacon and baked goods aroma from the breakfast bar. Not artificially sweet, like most omega perfumes, but something natural and warm. The brunette was shaking her head violently at a server holding a loaded omelet plate. Her hands twisted in front of her stomach, her whole body radiating discomfort at having to refuse something. “I’m so sorry. I should have said something when I ordered.”

Toast. I was here for toast, not to eye-fuck some random omega, no matter how good she smelled. She couldn’t have been more than five-foot-four, and she lacked that polished selfie-ready look that filled my social media feeds. Her dark hair fell in waves past her shoulders, and she had the kind of curves that made designers weep. The sundress she wore probably came from some mainstream department store, but it hugged those curves in a way that would make you think you had a heart condition. Her scent grew stronger as she shifted nervously, orange mixing with something deeper. Maybe anxiety, maybe embarrassment. I could get drunk on the combination.

Great. I was standing here like my aura just presented, eye-fucking some random omega.

The server smiled kindly and whisked the plate away, but she remained frozen. I recognized that look. The same one I’d seen in the mirror this morning. Decision fatigue, paralyzed by too many choices. But on her, it was… endearing. Fascinating. I wanted to know what made someone so clearly capable look so lost over something as simple as sending back the wrong order. I had to grip my plate harder to keep from moving toward her.

I grabbed my toast and mechanically shoved a corner in my mouth, not tasting it as I made my way back to my seat. She followed me. No, not me. She was just choosing a table for the view like I had. Nowshewasmyview, which was much better than the ocean and sky around us. She stared down at her empty plate like it held the secrets of the universe, her fingers tracing the edge in small, nervous movements. Her lips moved like she was whispering to herself. When she got up, it was with sharp, decisive movements. She stalked away from her table, and I tracked her movement until she disappeared around the buffet corner, her orange blossom scent lingering in the air like a promise.

A promise I could never fulfill.

I flipped back to my Big Idea page. Nothing had changed. The white, lined paper sat in judgment. What if I had already had all my Big Ideas? What if I was tapped out now? What if I had to go back to a 9-5 and get stuck in a maze of cubicles, watching someone else run my company into the ground?

A clatter drew my attention back to her table. She had returned with a plate piled high with French toast and a mountain of whipped cream.

Her eyes darted around the dining room like a kid checking to see if they’d get caught for the crime they were about to commit. She cut a delicate square of the custardy bread and topped it with as much whipped cream as the fork could hold. She closed her eyes as she chewed. It must have been one hell of a bite. Shewiped a tear away from her eye. I didn’t think I had ever had food so good it made me cry.

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