By the third morning of my honeymoon, I had stopped blaming the sea.
I had sailed since childhood.
My father taught me to read weather before I could drive.
I knew the difference between seasickness, exhaustion and fear.
This was none of them.
This felt chemical.
My arms were too heavy.
My mouth stayed dry no matter how much water I drank.
Sometimes I would stand up and lose fifteen seconds.
Not faint exactly.
More like the world moved away while I remained where I was.
Adrian called it honeymoon fatigue.
“Your body’s finally slowing down.”
He would kiss my forehead.
Bring me tea.
Tell me to sleep.
And every time he did, I felt worse.
Our yacht, the Mercer Star, moved between the outer islands of the Evermere Isles, cutting through water so blue it looked painted.
It had been my father’s wedding gift.
Not ownership exactly.
Use of it for the season.
Thirty-eight meters of white hull, polished teak, six guest cabins, a glass-walled lounge and enough crew to make privacy difficult.
Except Adrian had somehow created plenty.
On the first day, he suggested we dismiss half the crew for “a more intimate honeymoon.”
I refused.
He laughed.
“Worth trying.”
By day three, though, most of the crew seemed unusually distant.
The steward who normally brought breakfast stopped coming.
Adrian carried the trays instead.
The chief engineer avoided looking at me.
