The Lies He Told | PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER ROMANCE |

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Assuming the mantle of our confident tour guide, Royce led us through the maze-like passageways that wound their way toward the captain's quarters.

What would have ordinarily been a brisk, straightforward walk took on an eerie, interminable quality in the face of an unexpected blackout that cloaked our surroundings.

In this Stygian abyss, the only source of salvation was the feeble radiance emanating from Royce's phone torch, the faint light casting otherworldly, elongated shadows that writhed along the walls, creating a surreal ambience in our already trepidatious predicament.

We arrived at the formidable, dark wooden door adorned with an intricately designed gilded doorknob. A moment of silent gratitude washed over me as I realised the door stood slightly ajar. Had it been locked, I would have been utterly clueless about the access code, helpless amidst the oppressive shroud of obscurity.

As I entered the room, Royce's imposing figure filled the doorway. He paused momentarily, his gaze sweeping over the handcrafted walls, custom-made helm console, and state-of-the-art equipment. Then, with a gentle creak of the floorboards, he stepped inside.

"This is neat." He visually feasted on our surroundings. "Rare wood." A closed-up fist tapped on the ebony-framed captain's chair, a plush, leather-upholstered throne with the artist's engraved signature on the armrest and a commanding view of the horizon through the expansive windshield. "You got some world-renowned carpenters in your pocket."

"My father is friends with influential people," I explained in a measured tone, watching him flick the phone light over the layout of the room, taking in every detail. "He managed to get an internationally acclaimed craftsman to work on this room." That piece of information might have impressed him, given his passion for woodwork. "What do you think? She is something special, isn't she?"

Royce eyed the two leather sofas arranged in a symmetrical fashion around the coffee table hewn from a solitary monolith of exquisite marble.

"She's a beauty." He looked from me to the gold-framed plaques on the wall. "Where is the fuse box?"

"Oh, it's right here." Turning on my heel, I reached for the door handle and pulled it back for him to see the fuse box tucked neatly by the wall. "Do you require any tools?"

Before he could reformulate a reply, I heard the unmistakable sound of a suction seal as the door shut behind me.

I closed my eyes, knowing, without looking, that I had locked us both inside the room. "Please tell me I did not worsen our situation."

"What?" He rushed to the locked door, yanking the doorknob with frantic hands. "For fuck's sake, Liv." His face was puce with exasperation. "Why did you let go of the handle?"

"Do not raise your voice at me!" My face felt like it was going to burst into flames. "I was trying to be helpful!"

He gaped at me with wide, disbelieving eyes. "By locking us in?"

"By showing you the fuse box," I retorted with a discernible edge in my tone, condescendingly disregarding his objections. "I am not to blame here. If it were up to me, we would never have boarded the boat tonight." My feet traversed the room with a restless gait. "I knew this was a bad idea!"

Royce pulled on the doorknob with all his might, but the door remained stubbornly shut. "Where is the key?"

"Gloria's Odyssey is not a nineteen-fifties piscatorial vessel, Royce," I snapped, gesticulating wildly towards the door secured by a cryptic numerical cypher. "We need electricity to unlock it!"

"Chill the fuck out," he reprimanded me, then pushed me aside to inspect the fuse box. "You should have known better. How can someone who owns this boat not know that closing the door automatically triggers the locking mechanism? It's fucking madness."