Chapter 271: Chapter 271

Chapter 271

The lower storage hold of the cargo vessel smelled of diesel fuel, rust, and salt spray, a combination that made Ethan’s stomach turn with every swell of the ocean. He lay wedged between two massive wooden crates, pulling Ariana’s damp coat tight over his shivering body. His skin burned with a raging fever, but inside he felt completely frozen.

Every rough wave that slammed against the steel hull sent a sharp, agonizing jar straight through his fractured ribs, tearing open the crude hospital stitches beneath his shirt. Dark blood had long since soaked through his inner dressings, sticking the fabric to his skin like glue. He had no antiseptic, no clean bandages, and no painkillers left to blunt the sharp ache radiating through his entire torso.

The steady, heavy thump of metal boots on the iron ladder announced someone’s approach long before the hatch door scraped open.

A gruff, burly crewman in a stained grease jumpsuit stepped down into the compartment, carrying a plastic gallon jug of lukewarm tap water and a stale loaf of bread wrapped in plastic. He shone a bright yellow work light straight into the dark alcove, blinding Ethan for a brief second. The sailor stopped in his tracks, staring down at Ethan’s ghostly pale face, the dark sweat plastered across his forehead, and the

noticeable red stain spreading down his side.

“Jesus, kid,” the sailor grunted, his voice coarse from decades of heavy smoking as he set the water jug down on top of a wooden crate with a hard thud. “The captain said I was dropping off food for a quiet passenger, not a dying runaway. You look like you’re about to drop dead on my floor.”

Ethan forced himself to sit up slightly, clutching his wounded side with one hand while using his free hand to steady his body against the crate. “I’m fine,” he choked out, his voice thin and dry like sandpaper. “Just... sea sickness. It’s nothing.”

“Don’t play me for a fool,” the sailor spat back, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned in closer to inspect Ethan’s blood-soaked shirt. “That’s a deep wound, and you’re burning up with a fever. I’m not hauling a corpse out to sea. If you’ve got infection setting in, I’m telling the first mate to pull into the nearest port and hand you over to the authorities before you die on our shift.”

“No, wait! Please, don’t do that!” Ethan rasped, his heart pounding in panic as he reached into his jacket pocket with trembling fingers. He pulled out the small stack of folded hundred-dollar bills Ariana had shoved into his hands before he boarded. He extended his hand, exposing the cash to the yellow beam of the flashlight. “Take it. Take all of it. Just leave the water and let me stay down here until we reach the coast. I won’t cause any trouble, I swear to you.”

The sailor eyed the money cautiously, his brow furrowing as he looked back and forth between the fresh bills and Ethan’s desperate, pleading eyes. He snatched the cash out of Ethan’s palm, pocketing it inside his jumpsuit without counting it. “If you die down here, I’m rolling you over the side myself and keeping the cash. Drink the water and keep your mouth shut.” The man turned on his heel and climbed back up the ladder, slamming the heavy iron hatch shut behind him and leaving the hold in pitch darkness once again.

Ethan slumped back against the wooden crates, his head thumping against the hard wood as the darkness swallowed him whole. The deep, rhythmic hum of the ship’s engine vibrated through the floorboards, drowning out every sound except his own ragged breathing. He closed his eyes, fighting against the dizzying urge to lose consciousness entirely.

Whenever his eyelids felt too heavy and his mind drifted toward blacking out, he forced himself to picture Isabelle. He brought up the memory of her face, her voice, and the lingering terror of knowing she was currently locked away in Sam’s estate in France. That single thought became his anchor, the only thing keeping his body alive inside the cold, dark hull.

As the physical pain throbbed continuously through his body, his feverish mind drifted backward in time, slipping into memories he hadn't revisited in years. His mind landed abruptly on a summer ten years ago, when he and Sam were both fifteen years old.

Back then, Ethan had thought Sam was the most loyal friend a person could ask for. Ethan remembered standing in the grand courtyard of his family’s private country club, watching his father, Richard Castellan, berate him in front of the entire staff for failing an elite preparatory track entrance exam. Richard had towered over Ethan, calling him a weak, worthless boy who would never inherit the Castellan name, publicly humiliating him until Ethan stood silently with his fists clenched, choking back tears of pure shame.

Sam had stepped up right after Richard walked away, slinging his arm around fifteen-year-old Ethan’s shoulders with a sympathetic look. “Don’t listen to your old man, Ethan,” Sam had said back then, his voice smooth, soft, and full of comfort. “He’s tough on you because he doesn’t understand you like I do. You don't need his approval anyway. You’ve got me. I’ll always make sure nobody pushes you around, man. We’re brothers.”

At fifteen, Ethan had felt a wave of profound relief, believing Sam was the only person in the world who genuinely cared about him. But now, lying in the dark storage hold ten years later with blood soaking his shirt, the fog cleared completely, and the terrifying truth of that afternoon surfaced in his mind like a slap to the face.

Sam had been the one who handed Ethan the wrong study module two nights before that entrance exam. Sam had been the one who subtly convinced Ethan that he didn't need to review the final pages because "they weren't important." And right after Richard finished humiliating Ethan in that courtyard, Ethan clearly remembered seeing fifteen-year-old Sam walk around the corner to speak with Richard directly, offering a quiet, polite apology on Ethan’s behalf while making himself look like the responsible, composed prodigy Richard always wished he had for a son.

Sam hadn't been comforting him that day; he had been feeding Ethan's isolation. Sam had systematically broken down Ethan's confidence, fed his anxieties, and driven a wedge between Ethan and his father, ensuring that Ethan would grow up entirely dependent on Sam’s validation and guidance. Every piece of advice Sam had ever given him—from pushing him to act out at university to encouraging his worst impulses against Isabelle—had been deliberate, calculated steps to destroy Ethan from the inside out so Sam could take everything that belonged to him.

Ethan opened his eyes in the pitch-black hold, a cold, sharp clarity replacing the haze of his fever. He reached out with his blood-stained hand, grabbing the plastic water jug beside him, and unscrewed the cap with a single, firm twist.