But hope didn’t feel like hope.
Divers pulled up a few pieces of women’s clothing. They recovered half-burned prosthetic material—disguise gel, scorched and curling at the edges.
Nothing else.
That left another possibility: when the ship blew, Loyce and Sapphire might’ve been on deck and thrown overboard by the blast wave. Not burned—just knocked unconscious, swallowed by the sea.
And if they drowned out here… deep water didn’t give things back.
Loyce’s signal was still gone. No one dared say the worst outcome aloud—not to Lucian. He knew it anyway.
Even with that knowledge, he threw on a dive suit and went down himself. Searching this ocean for a body was like searching a desert for a single grain of sand. Everything he did was useless.
The ship grew heavy with silence.
...
On the third morning, dawn came thin and gray-blue over the water. A thin layer of fog still drifted over the water.
Loyce’s satellite indicator still read: “LOST.”
Despair rose in Lucian like the sea itself, cold and endless. He stared at the floating debris, eyes unfocused.
Guns lowered. The yacht drew closer, the figure sharpening into a clear outline in the morning light, hair lifting in the wind.
When Lucian finally saw her face, his breathing stopped. His blood seemed to freeze—then boil all at once. His vision blackened at the edges and his body swayed. He seized the rail so hard his knuckles protested.
“It’s Loyce,” someone shouted. “Lower the ladder—get her up!”
A rope dropped. Loyce grabbed it, then hauled Sapphire up from the yacht and let the crew pull Sapphire aboard first. Then Loyce climbed quickly, athletic and sure. She jumped onto the deck and met Lucian’s eyes by the ladder. She started to smile.
Lucian yanked her forward with one hard pull, dragging her into his arms in front of everyone.
He bent his head and pressed his face into the hollow of her neck, breathing her in like air after drowning. His breath was hot and unsteady against her skin, giving away everything he was trying not to show.

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