CHAPTER 166: YATCH RIDE

[Music Recommendation: Vampire by Olivia Rodrigo.]

The evening ended beneath a heavy cloud of tension, thick with words neither could bring themselves to say.

Still, Lyle’s demeanor didn’t change. He held her hand to the car, helped her into the passenger seat, then slipped into the driver’s seat without a word and drove off.

Ephyra sighed softly, turning away from him. She leaned her head against the window and closed her eyes.

A few minutes passed.

Lyle, his knuckles white from the death grip on the steering wheel, finally eased up. Slowing the car, he cast a glance her way.

He flexed his fingers, one by one, loosening the tight grip he hadn’t realized he was holding.

When they arrived at the hotel suite, the guards at the entrance greeted them both. The door opened, and they stepped in. It closed softly behind them.

The silence between them stretched, heavy and uncertain. Neither had said a word since leaving the rooftop.

Ephyra felt it pressing down on her, growing more unbearable with each second. She wished—just once—one of them would say something before they parted ways for the night. But just as she turned to speak, Lyle was already walking away, heading toward the opposite hallway—toward his room.

Her words caught in her throat.

She watched him open the door, step inside, and disappear without looking back.

Her shoulders dropped. With a small sigh, she turned and walked in the other direction.

Ephyra made quick work of getting ready for bed. Minutes later, she was dressed in one of Lyle’s sleep shirts—soft cotton and just oversized enough to hang gently against her body. She slid under the covers, switched off the lights, leaving only the bedside lamp casting a warm glow. Shifting to find the right position, she curled on her side and closed her eyes, trying to coax sleep into coming.

But her mind wasn’t ready to fall asleep.

...

In his room, Lyle stood barefoot before the open floor-to-ceiling windows, dressed only in loose cotton sleep pants. The evening wind filtered through the narrow gap, brushing his skin.

He stared outside for a long, quiet moment, before glancing down at the phone in his hand.

As if summoned, the screen lit up with an incoming call.

He answered.

Jania’s voice came through. "Master Lyle, good evening. Is everything alright?"

Lyle’s tone was cold. "I need you to do something for me."

"What do you need me to do, Master Lyle?"

"I want you to get more information from Ephyra. About the issue she’s having. I need to know everything—any connections, information, anyone involved. Anything. And report back to me directly."

There was a pause.

Then Jania’s voice, hesitant: "But... you said I should only help when she can’t handle something. Did something happen?"

"Jania," he said, cutting her off. "Just do what I asked."

Silence again.

Then, quieter this time, "Yes, Master Lyle."

He didn’t reply. He ended the call and tossed the phone onto the table.

His hands slipped into his pockets as he turned back to the window, eyes fixed on the city lights beyond.

—

The next morning, Ephyra did her best to forget the tension from the night before. She made sure they had breakfast together—though conversation was painfully thin. After her small talk ran out ("How was your night?" "Did you sleep well?"), The silence returned like a stubborn guest.

When the meal ended, she got up so fast you’d think the chair burned her. Okay, maybe she’d done that more times than she could count. But it was because Lyle’s intense gaze was too much for her to handle.

Today’s plan was a yacht ride around the Statue of Liberty. Ephyra had originally wanted them to wear matching couple outfits, but after last night... She shelved that idea.

Still, she picked out his outfit. She waited until he was in the bathroom, snuck into his room, and laid everything out on the bed: a crisp white knit polo, tailored beige trousers, white sneakers, and a sleek leather-strap watch.

Effortlessly perfect. Just like him.

Then she dressed in a white halter top with a front tie and soft ruffle detail. A flowing white tiered maxi skirt. Her accessories gleamed: gold flower-shaped earrings, a delicate gold necklace, gold and pearl bracelets, a gold chain belt, and white high-heeled sandals.

She slipped her phone into a pearl-white cute tote bag and stepped out of her room.

As expected, Lyle was already waiting.

She gave him a soft, apologetic smile and moved to his side. He didn’t say anything, but he took her wrist gently and led her toward the elevator. Two bodyguards followed behind.

—

They got into the car, with Lyle taking the wheel and the guards following in a separate vehicle. They began a long car ride and arrived at the dock just past noon.

The sun glared down, unfiltered and relentless, its reflection shimmering across the water like shattered glass. The air was thick with salt and heat. People bustled around the marina, wearing everything from oversized straw hats to sun visors, fanning themselves with brochures and iced drink cups.

The smell of seawater, sunscreen, and faint gasoline from docked boats mingled in the air.

Ephyra blinked at it all.

She’d never come to a dock like this for leisure. Her previous visits were always by business—gathering intel, exchanging sensitive information, or meeting someone who insisted on privacy aboard their own boat.

Never for sightseeing.

She adjusted the strap of her bag and turned to Lyle, who was scanning the area with his usual unreadable calm.

A few minutes later, a man in khakis and a branded polo hurried up to them, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Apologies for the delay, Mr. and Mrs. Aelion," he said. "I’m your tour guide for today. Welcome."

He led them down the dock, giving a brief overview of the area, the history of the harbor, and details about the yacht ride. Ephyra mostly nodded along, half-listening as her eyes wandered over the sea.

Eventually, they reached the yacht—a sleek, modern vessel bobbing gently in the water.

The captain greeted them at the boarding ramp, and the introductions were kept short and sweet. They gave their names—Mr. Lyle Aelion and Mrs. Aelion—and boarded.

The yacht pulled away from the dock and glided into open water.

At first, Ephyra was engrossed in the guide’s commentary, absorbing every anecdote and obscure fact about the Statue of Liberty like a student eager to impress.

"So this was during a history class—and let me tell you, the professor was terrifying. The man wore a suit to every lecture and graded like he was punishing us for something our ancestors did. Anyway, he had given us this massive project and told us to submit it before class started—just drop it in this little submission box he kept at the front."

Ephyra sipped her drink, already smiling.

The guide continued, "So, I stayed up all night working on this paper, right? Like, genuinely poured my soul into it. Printed it, triple-stapled it, even sprayed it with lavender mist like a psychopath hoping the scent would make him go easy on me."

Ephyra snorted.

"And then..." The guide made a dramatic pause. "I got to class and realized—I left the paper in the printer tray. At home."

"I sprinted back across campus—full Olympic mode—grabbed the paper, ran back, got there two minutes late. Two. Freaking. Minutes. Slipped it into the box, prayed to all the old gods and new."

He gave Ephyra a meaningful look.

"Guess what grade I got?"

Ephyra raised an eyebrow. "Tell me he passed you."

The guide held up a finger. "C minus. C minus. With a sticky note that said, and I quote: ’Lateness reflects in the quality of character, not just timing. Do better.’"

There was a beat of silence before Ephyra wheezed out a laugh, nearly doubling over. "No, he did not!"

"Oh, he did," the guide confirmed solemnly. "And then three weeks later he caught someone plagiarizing Wikipedia and gave them a B. I have never known peace since."

"Justice for Lavender Essay," Ephyra declared, raising her imaginary placard.

"Thank you," the guide said with mock solemnity, bowing slightly. "It still hurts. I think I aged five years that semester."

Ephyra chuckled, shaking her head. She glanced to the side and spotted Lyle sitting alone near the edge of the yacht, his eyes fixed solely on her.

She gave him a small smile, then turned back to the guide’s story, still listening while the wind tugged gently at her hair.

A few minutes later, she stood up, pulling out her phone. She began replying to Malia’s messages and sent over a series of pictures—snaps from yesterday’s events, everything except the rooftop dinner.

She uploaded them to the group chat with a simple caption:

{Tourist mode activated.}

After a beat, she turned toward Lyle again.

"Hey," she called softly, walking up to him. "Aren’t you bored?"

Lyle’s gaze remained steady.

"No," he answered, cool and clipped.

She gave a tiny nod, then wandered to the other side of the yacht.

Ephyra took more photos—of the skyline, the gleaming sea, the distant Statue of Liberty. Then she caught Lyle watching her again, eyes unreadable. She walked over with purpose.

"You," she said, pointing at him. "Camera duty."

He arched his brow.

"You heard me. Take pictures of me. I look good today and I deserve proof."

Wordlessly, he took the phone. She struck a few poses. Then, grinning, she leaned in.

"Selfie time."

She snapped one. Then another. And another.

Lyle didn’t smile. But the corners of his mouth twitched. Just slightly.

Time slipped by in gold-tinged waves. They had lunch aboard the yacht, the sun now soft and warm, casting a golden sheen over the sea. Their meals were quiet again—but the silence this time felt... lighter.

By late afternoon, the sky began to shift.

Ephyra stood at the bow of the yacht, her hair tossed gently by the breeze as the sun dipped low, spilling molten orange across the water.

Lyle came to stand beside her.

They stood side by side, not speaking.

They didn’t have to.

The sunset said everything.

And when the yacht finally made its slow turn back toward the dock, the moment—brief, beautiful, silent—was still nestled between them.