[Sequel of Warm Love, hence can't be read as a standalone.]
In the first phase, Reyansh concealed a web of mysteries, but as they stand face to face once more, it's Kiraz who holds the tantalizing secrets waiting to be unveiled. These hidden truths...
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Don't look down. No matter what. I chant multiple times. However, all my eyes do is disobey my direct order, looking down at my feet. My knuckles turn white from how tightly I clutch the railing. My breath comes in short, sharp gasps, barely audible over the howling gale. My hair whips wildly in the wind, a nuisance. The sight of the violently churning waters beneath my bare feet fills me with suffocating dread. I haven't even jumped in yet, and already I'm imagining the salty water filling my lungs, restricting my breathing, pulling me closer to the bottom and wiping away every scent of mine.
I wasn't going to jump. I know I gave up on my sanity long ago, but there are still some cells chastising my irrational side. They curse me for standing at the edge of the yacht's deck, as though I'm in some low-budget Titanic remake.
Trying to normalize my breathing and hide how close I was to panicking, I throw a glance at Reyansh. I expected to see a face etched with panic, but instead found...
Indifference.
Nonchalance.
And, least expected of all, him blowing smoke when I was getting cold feet.
He stood firm, barely paying heed to my threat, wearing an expression of calmness. Casually, he lifted a cigarette to his lips, took a slow, deliberate drag, and blew a plume of smoke into the turbulent air. The thin wisp curled and twisted, momentarily defying the wind before being swept away into the subtly lit sky.
He arched a brow, leaning against the wall with his ankles crossed, half-naked and hardly affected by the cold, while I was covered in goosebumps. The cigarette still between his fingers, he asked, "Changed your mind?"
Did he not hear my threat?
I try again, "I am serious. I will jump if you don't order your man to turn the ship."
"Nothing of that sort is happening."
"Okay, I am jumping." Bastard. I take a brave peek at the ocean, and my body forgets to inhale oxygen.
"Do it and become breakfast for sharks."
My attention sweeps to him, my eyes widening. "Sharks?"
He purses his lips, taking a last inhale from the bud, before he walks towards it. My grip on the railing tightens, sweat shining under my palm. "Don't come closer," I warn him.
"Relax, just throwing it." True to his word, he stands at a fair distance—not too far and not too close—and flicks the bud into the ocean, my eyes following the movement. Imagining myself as that bud, thrown into the ocean. How cold must the water be? Chilling to the bone? A shiver racks my body.
"Calculating which time is good for you to jump, probably trying to save yourself from becoming their breakfast. But don't worry, you will be their lunch."
"Shut up," I ground my teeth. Does this man really not care if I jump? I would've given it a shot, but the possibility of lingering sharks and becoming their breakfast has hijacked my senses in fear. From my periphery, I see him sticking his palm out, "Instead of becoming their breakfast or lunch, be my custom-made dessert. I bet you would love that too."
