The polished brass handrails gleam under the weak glow of the electric sconces. Florence Garcia dashes down the narrow corridor of the SS Navis, her heart pounding in her ears, her maid’s uniform rustling with urgency at every move. Her hands are red and raw, a cleaning rag clenched tightly in her grip as her gaze darts left and right down the endless expanse of wood-paneled hallways. "Where am I?" she whispers, her voice cracking with confusion, the words barely audible as they escape her lips. Her feet falter as panic wells in her chest.
The muted hum of the steam liner’s engines vibrates underfoot, and as she turns the corner, a window catches her attention. She stops abruptly, her thoughts colliding in her mind. Outside, endless swathes of ocean stretch far and wide, swallowing the horizon. The waters ripple under a silver moon, their surface dark and unknowable. She presses her hand to the glass, her breath fogging over its surface, her pulse refusing to slow. "That can't be," she murmurs, shaking her head. This doesn’t make sense—none of it does. The Atlantic Ocean sprawls impossibly before her, eternal in its depths, yet how? How is she here?
Driven by the need for air and clarity, she bolts forward and pushes past the heavy double doors that lead to the outside deck. Ocean air immediately hits her, raw and biting, carrying the tang of salt and coolness of wind. The liner’s great, towering smokestacks spew faint trails into the night sky, stars barely visible through the haze. Florence grips the railing and leans over, her chest heaving with breaths. She forces herself to relax, hoping the rhythm of the waves will still the storm inside her. She glances at her worn hands, her thumb grazing the coarse surface of the rag lodged in her fingers.
The hum of whispers draws her attention. Her eyes flicker to the nearby cluster of maids standing by another doorway further down; their pristine uniforms glimmer under the deck lights. But their stares are sharp and accusing, their pointing fingers betraying her. Her stomach turns as one maid leans over to speak hurriedly to an approaching officer. She freezes. The officer—a tall, broad man whose shadow looms over the deck—now locks eyes with her and shouts, his voice cutting through the gentle noise of the ocean. "Stop! Come back here, stowaway!"
Her body acts before her mind does, adrenaline spurring her to turn and flee. She’s running blindly now, her shoes scraping against the deck’s boards with frantic rhythm. She darts back through the door, past startled passengers adjusting their coats as the cold impedes them. The officer’s voice is a freight train on her heels, his shouts bouncing off the wooden walls that now seem to shrink around her. She rounds a corner and doubles back into the depths of the ship, deeper and deeper, toward the labyrinthine corridors that seem almost endless. Guilt, fear, confusion—everything sends her legs propelling forward, dodging guests, workers, and even the officer’s outstretched hands. But somehow, amidst chaos, she spots an opened door ahead.
Without hesitation, she dives inside, swiftly pulling it shut behind her. Darkness envelops her in the broom closet, its cramped space thick with the musty scent of cleaning supplies. Pressing her back hard against the wooden panels, her breaths come in shallow bursts as she listens. Outside, muffled voices and heavy boots pound past. They don’t stop. Her heart gallops in her chest, the thrum of its panic almost louder than the murmur of activity beyond. She’s safe—for now.
As she slides down to sit, she tries to still herself. "How did this even happen?" the words spill from her lips in a shaky whisper as she presses trembling fingers against her forehead. Her mind begins to drift unwillingly, rewinding time, pulling her back from this moment to days before. The warmth of her regular life flickers into view.
Modern-day Groton, Connecticut—her apartment glowing with golden sunlight, humming with the scent of freshly grilled food from the food truck below. Doug, her boyfriend, had been the center of all of it, his smile once an anchor to her world. And yet the memory sharpens into a cruel one as she remembers the scene of him in their apartment, tangled with someone else. The betrayal on his face mirrored the shattering of hers as she screamed at him. She sees again, in vivid flashes, her life crumbling in the fallout—the food truck, their shared dreams, even her place to live. All gone in an instant. Pain cuts through her even as she sits in the claustrophobic confinement of the broom closet.
Some days later, burdened with heartbreak and no options left, she remembers her mother, Gloria. Florence had stayed at her house when the world fell apart, hardly able to breathe through the weight in her chest. The voice of her mother echoes now, repeating the mantra that pushed her forward: "Sometimes you just have to save yourself."
It was Gloria who had urged her to take a step, handing her the job at the naval ship museum—the museum dedicated to a steam liner that once burned and sank into history’s depths. And now here she is, aboard that very steam liner, yet inexplicably thrust into its past. Florence shivers, her breath shaky as she cradles her head in her hands, the rag still clutched desperately in her fist. "How?" she whispers. "How am I here?"
She struggles to piece it together, but the answers feel as distant as the stars she glimpsed outside.
The parking lot is almost empty, save for a scattering of faded cars under the blue-gray sky. Florence sits in her beat-up sedan, behind the steering wheel, her fingers gripping it with tension she doesn’t quite release. She’s dressed in a maid’s uniform—high-necked with crisp white cuffs, the kind worn by the crew of the SS Navis steam liner over a century ago, its buttoned layers still uncomfortably foreign against her modern skin. The museum looms in the near distance, its historic charm quiet but undeniable, shadowed by the weight of the sunken ship’s echoes. She isn’t ready to walk in yet.
To her right on the dashboard lies a photo. It’s muted by age but clear enough: her face, smiling, pressed lovingly against the shoulder of Doug, her ex. Doug, with his stupid grin—effortless, hollow now in hindsight. Florence grabs the photo abruptly, crumpling it in her hand before tearing it down the middle, over and over, until her trembling fingers reduce it to paper confetti. “You cheating jerk,” she hisses, her voice cracking. Her scream that follows—sharp and raw—pierces the stillness as she slams her palm against the steering wheel. The echo fades, leaving her breathing unsteady.
A knock on the window startles her. She whirls to meet the visitor, hastily wiping the anger off her face, pulling a quick mask of composure over the rawness beneath. Her boss, Felix, leans into the window, his own uniform pronounced like hers but demanding authority, his captain’s hat tilted at a precise angle. His expression is soft with concern despite the weariness in his eyes. "Are you okay?" he asks, his voice measured but tinged with quiet curiosity.
Florence plasters on a tight-lipped smile, trying not to show the cracks in her armor. “Yes. Good morning, Felix,” she says. Almost too brightly. She steps out of the car, smoothing her skirt neatly as though her actions might smooth her frayed emotions. Without so much as a glance between them, Felix nods and walks toward the museum, Florence trailing closely behind him.
Her heels echo in the museum’s tiled hallways, bouncing off grand displays full of history. Dust speckles the light streaming through high glass windows as Florence listens to Felix’s orders. “Can you clean the anchor room today?” he asks, his tone authoritative yet perfunctory. She nods, partially distracted, and heads to the breakroom in the back of the building.
The breakroom smells faintly of coffee from hours ago. Florence opens her locker, tossing her belongings inside—a handbag, her phone. She takes out a cleaning cart from a narrow closet, its wheels squeaking faintly as she guides it into the museum's exhibit halls. Each corridor she passes is a story come to life. Large glass displays show black-and-white photographs of passengers and crew. A faded menu from the ship’s dining room lies framed under protective glass, its delicate cursive letters spelling out meals lost in history. There are artifacts too—tarnished spoons, fragments of uniforms, diary pages with edges worn to the faintest whispers of ink. All reminders that the ship—its people, its stories—died long before she existed.
Eventually, Florence reaches the anchor room. The centerpiece of the exhibit dominates the room—a massive anchor resting under glass, as though it holds a sacred presence. Its steel curves are rusted but hum with untold power, a silent guardian of the ship’s ghostly secrets. Florence wheels the cleaning cart to the side and grabs a cloth, her mind absently spinning with half-formed thoughts as she starts wiping down the glass counters surrounding the anchor. She talks aloud to herself—it’s something she does now, a habit born of solitude. “This place is creepy…” she half-whispers, her words mingling with the distant hum of ventilation.
A flash of light catches her attention. It’s faint at first, like sunlight bending wrong, but then comes the sound to accompany it—a low, rhythmic roar like waves crashing onto a cliff. Florence freezes, slowly turning her head. Her pulse quickens as she scans the room, her surroundings suddenly alien in their discomfort. “What the hell?” she mutters, her voice shaking.
The light pulses once more, drawing her gaze toward the anchor itself. Florence edges closer, her curiosity overriding her nerves. She runs the cloth over the anchor’s rusted surface, her hand slow and careful. It feels different against her skin suddenly—warmer, alive somehow. And then, without warning, the anchor glows.
A blinding blast accompanies a strange pulling sensation—like gravity snapping sideways, wrenching her from the room and into somewhere impossible. She feels herself being sucked away, like falling but in no direction she understands. Gravity reclaims her abruptly, hard and unforgiving. Florence lands—her body colliding with what feels like wood, polished and steady beneath her palms but trembling faintly as though part of a living beast.
When she drags herself upright, the world around her is not her own.
Her boots scuff against a glimmering deck. Ocean air fills her lungs with salt and chill, and the rhythmic cawing of seagulls echoes somewhere above her head. People bustle past her dressed in early 1900s finery—corsets, high collars, skirts sweeping the polished floors. Uniformed crew rush by, heads ducked, carrying crates and ropes. She stands frozen, her wide eyes scanning the impossible scene as terror presses into her ribcage.
Suddenly, the haze lifts, yanking her back to herself. She’s in danger—this isn’t her world, and they know it. Officers in starched uniforms shout orders farther down the deck, breaking the flow of busy movement, and Florence recognizes it immediately—the pursuit is on. They’re coming for her.
She stumbles back instinctively, her heart hammering in her chest. Lunging for the shadows, she slips into a narrow storage closet nearby. Her breaths are sharp and shallow as she presses against the wood-paneled walls, her body trembling with the weight of what’s just happened. But even this moment of stolen quiet doesn’t last.
***
The bridge of the SS Navis hums with quiet activity, the muted voices of the crew blending with the constant whir of machinery. Edward Axelsen, the ship’s first mate, stands tall in the middle of the room, his commanding presence nearly magnetic. A man of thirty years, his sharp black hair seems meticulously arranged, framing a face that holds both striking beauty and an undeniable intensity. The tailored navy uniform fits him as though it were molded to his frame, glinting subtly with silver buttons under the fluorescent light.
Edward moves with calculated precision, his eyes sweeping over the pilots at their consoles and the navigator referencing charts and instruments. His gaze lingers just long enough to instill purpose in their movements. His baritone voice punctuates the room, steady and crisp. “Everything looks good so far. Just keep on this trajectory.”
The air shifts subtly as hurried footsteps approach from behind, shoes clapping against the polished metal floor. Another ship’s officer appears, his face flushed and wide-eyed under the brim of his cap. He's slightly out of breath, and it takes a moment for him to steady himself before speaking.
“Sir,” the officer begins, his voice strained. “The captain said he will not be reporting for his shift… He’s asked you to handle it.”
Edward’s chest rises sharply as he inhales, his jaw tightening beneath the light stubble shading his strong chin. His dark eyes flash with restrained fury, but his voice remains tempered—controlled for now. “Where is the captain?” he demands, his words low and cutting.
The officer fidgets under the weight of Edward’s penetrating stare, then blurts in a tone almost apologetic, “He is… having tea with the first-class passengers, sir.”
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Edward doesn’t respond right away. Instead, his lips press into a tight line, and the bridge seems to hold its breath for him. His glare hardens, a storm of restrained emotion gathering behind his composed exterior. Without another word, he pivots sharply and begins striding toward the exit. The steady rhythm of his boots against the steel floor echoes with purpose.
At the threshold, Edward halts. Turning back to face the bridge crew, he speaks with quiet authority, his voice cutting through the ambient hum. “I will be back shortly.”
The crew watches him go with a mixture of relief and tension, none daring to question him. Edward’s silhouette disappears beyond the heavy steel door as he steps toward the upper decks, leaving behind an air charged with a tension he didn’t voice but undoubtedly felt.
The salty breeze sweeps across the deck of the SS Navis, carrying the tang of the sea and the soft murmurs of passengers mingling in the afternoon sun. Edward strides purposefully, his broad shoulders cutting through the crowd like a ship splitting waves. His tailored navy uniform clings perfectly to his athletic frame, the gold trim shimmering under the sunlight. Heads turn as he passes, particularly those of the elegantly dressed ladies, their gazes lingering on his chiseled jaw and sharp blue eyes that seem to pierce like the horizon across open waters. Their curiosity is palpable, whispers bubbling up among them like champagne fizz.
Edward’s movements are sharp and deliberate, his boots clicking against the polished wood decking. He doesn’t spare a single glance at the admiring crowd, focused on the mission at hand. His sights zone in on the first-class dining area tucked beneath an arched canopy, the clink of fine china and soft hum of chatter drifting out toward him. There, seated at an ornate table beneath the shade of the awnings, is Captain Phil—a man who wears his authority more like indulgence than duty. The captain reclines with a lazy charm, his hand resting on the lap of a woman dressed in embroidered silk, her raven curls pinned elegantly beneath her hat. Her ruby lips quirk in invitation, her coy laugh drifting on the breeze.
Edward halts abruptly at the sight, his jaw tightening with barely concealed frustration. He marches forward with purpose, commanding attention without trying. Stopping just shy of the table, he straightens into a rigid stance and addresses the captain, his voice cutting through the din like a taut whip. “Captain Phil, we’ve caught the stowaways who snuck aboard.”
Phil doesn’t bother to stand nor drop his hand from the woman’s lap; instead, he leans back languidly and nods toward her, as though Edward is nothing more than a minor inconvenience in his afternoon rendezvous. “Edward, I’m busy,” he murmurs, his focus not leaving the woman’s entertained expression.
Edward’s patience frays like a rope about to snap. Heat flares in his chest as he tightens his fists, his expression stormy. “You haven’t reported for duty once,” he retorts, his voice firm and edged with irritation. “I’ve been working around the clock since we set sail.”
Phil exhales slowly, finally turning his gaze toward Edward with the kind of impertinence bred from unchecked privilege. “You are the first mate, Edward. I am the captain.”
“Then act like it,” Edward snaps, his tone weighted with frustration and accusation. “You haven’t set foot on the bridge. This ship doesn’t steer itself.”
Before Phil can muster a retort, two ship officers approach hurriedly, their faces taut with urgency. One of them blurts out, “Captain, we’ve lost one of the female stowaways. She was posing as a maid.”
Phil’s expression darkens instantly, annoyed more by the interruption than the revelation itself. He flicks his eyes back to Edward, his glare sharp enough to slice through steel. “Looks like you’ve got more work to do.”
Edward doesn’t budge under Phil’s glare, his own piercing stare meeting the captain’s. Tension hangs thick in the air—a battle of wills, unequal yet charged with defiance. “Looks like I’m off to do both of our jobs again,” Edward mutters coldly, his words laced with bitter resignation. Pivoting on his heel, he strides away without so much as a glance back, while the captain returns his hand to the lady’s lap, unbothered by the chaos brewing elsewhere on his ship. Meanwhile, Edward’s mind churns with the weight of responsibility—and the quiet storm of rebellion. For every crack in the ship’s hierarchy, he feels the ship itself lose its balance.
Edward’s hurried steps as he storms across the polished mahogany deck. A man of commanding presence, his sharp features and chiseled jawline draw lingering glances, even amidst the salty din of the sea air, but today, the handsome first mate’s expression is a thunderstorm. His boots strike the deck with purpose, his fast pace betraying a simmering frustration. Through the grand archway leading to the first-class dining hall, he catches sight of Captain Phill still enjoying tea with a young lady dressed in lace as radiant as the morning sun itself. Phill’s laugh is light, carefree, his cup delicately poised in one hand like he hasn’t a concern in the world. Edward’s glare darkens, his lip curls with irritation as he passes the doorway without stopping. Duty calls, and there are far graver matters at hand than flirtations over tea.
Trailing behind him are three ship officers, their uniforms taut but wrinkled from days of service at sea. They struggle to keep pace, all but tripping over their own feet as Edward turns sharply on his heel and addresses them. His voice cuts through the salty air like a blade. “What does the female stowaway look like?”
One officer stumbles over his words, flustered under the weight of Edward’s scrutiny. He mumbles, “I don’t— I don’t know, sir. But she’s… dressed like a maid.”
Edward clenches his jaw, his teeth grinding audibly as his patience frays. Without hesitation, he snatches at the officer’s uniform shirt, pulling him roughly forward. “You can’t be serious,” Edward hisses through clenched teeth, his tone daring the man to offer a better answer. “Who reported her as a stowaway?”
Another officer, his voice steady but his eyes jittering with unease, replies hastily, “The first-class maids, sir. They said—”
“Enough.” Edward’s voice snaps like a taut rope giving way, his frustration spilling freely now. With a stiff shove, he pushes the officer aside, dismissing their ineptitude with little ceremony. A storm burns behind Edward’s clear blue eyes, and it’s the kind of storm that leaves others in his wake. “I will go speak with the maids myself. Make sure they stop serving the Captain tea until I return,” he barks at the officers without looking back, already set on his next destination.
He strides down to the lower desk, his boots echoing sharply over the thick planks of the ship’s deck. The cool sea wind whirls around him, biting at his skin as he descends into the narrow passageways. The tight corridors hum with the rhythmic sway of the ship, the air thick with the scent of salt and varnished wood. Edward’s mind races ahead of his feet. He doesn’t know why—perhaps instinct—but something about a stowaway dressed as a maid doesn’t sit right with him. Something about this feels… off. The last thing Edward Axelsen enjoys is the unknown, and this mystery is unraveling faster than he can chase it.
Making his way toward the maids’ quarters, Edward’s fist clenches involuntarily. Whoever reported this situation, certain truths will be drawn from the shadows—whether or not they wish to reveal themselves willingly.
***
The air in the first-class cabin of the SS Navis carries a faint hint of sea salt and crisp linen, but for Nelson Schneider, it might as well be the stench of betrayal. He leans against the ornate railing of his private balcony, the ocean stretching endlessly around him like an empty promise. The porcelain coffee cup trembles slightly in his hand as he stares into the horizon, his jaw clenched, his blue eyes stormy under furrowed brows.
“I will show you,” he mutters under his breath, the words leaving his lips like a jagged vow. His voice is low, sharp, yet somehow swallowed by the gentle crash of the waves far below.
The memory of a few weeks ago tightens around his chest like thick rope. He sees himself in his father’s bustling ship liner office, surrounded by ledgers and maps, tirelessly coordinating schedules and cargo, earning his keep with precision and pride. For years, Nelson convinced himself he was the natural heir to his father, Roy Schneider, a man who built entire fleets with ambition and steel nerves. Nelson thought the legacy would someday pass to him.
But no. Everything—everything—had gone to her. Helen. His father’s new wife. A charming young widow with too-bright smiles and too-sharp wit, who had swept into their lives with unshakable grace. After his father’s sudden passing, Helen wasted no time, claiming the lion’s share of the inheritance for herself… and her newborn son, Roy Jr.
What stings the most is not just losing the empire promised to him, but Helen’s final words to him. “You’re not needed here, Nelson. I have my own way of doing things now.” With that, she dismissed him, tossed him aside like a meaningless employee in some fledgling company.
And now, here he stands. The last dregs of his wealth bought him passage aboard this floating palace. The irony is not lost on him. He’s poured every ounce of his remaining energy into the single plan that occupies his mind day and night. The plan that sits folded neatly inside his room.
With a sharp inhale, Nelson drains the last of his coffee. The dark coffee grounds at the bottom of the cup are bitter, but they are nothing compared to the taste of bitterness embedded in his soul. He pushes off the railing, his movements stiff with resentment. The faint murmur of passengers outside the cabin filters through the door as he steps into his room, where everything is laid out just so—precisely according to his calculations.
The table by the elegant four-poster bed displays the ship’s blueprints, sprawling like a treasure map only he can read. He surveys them for a moment, his fingers ghosting over the careful pencil marks he’d made over the past few days, notes etched in the margins with bold strokes. He catalogs everything—entry points, supply routes, weak spots. His lips tighten into a grim line.
With meticulous care, he rolls the blueprints into a tight cylinder and tucks them into the leather case sitting near the foot of the bed. He lifts the case and sets it by the door as though it’s fragile, though what’s inside carries a weight far heavier than its leather exterior suggests. His hands are steady. They have to be.
Pulling a pair of thick glasses from his pocket, he slides them on, hooking the temples over his ears. His reflection in the gilded mirror catches his eye—unfamiliar, partially masked beneath the hat pulled low to obscure his face. The disguise isn’t perfect, but it’s enough. For now.
The corridors are alive with the chatter of passengers, the occasional burst of laughter mingling with the faint strains of the ship’s orchestra performing several decks above. Nelson strides forward, keeping his pace purposefully yet casual. He sticks to the edges of the hallway, avoiding eye contact, his dark overcoat trailing faintly behind him.
Then he sees her.
Helen
She stands by the starboard railing on the main deck, a picture of polished elegance even in the simplicity of her ivory dress. Her gloved hands push a stroller, her infant son cooing softly in the shade of a white parasol affixed to the buggy. But Nelson’s focus isn’t on the baby—his half-brother, Roy Jr., the boy who supplanted him. No, his attention locks onto Helen.
She doesn’t notice him, of course. Why would she? Women like Helen never consider the shadows lurking around them. She’s far too engrossed in her conversation with the man at her side—a well-groomed, dark-haired businessman with a neatly trimmed mustache and an air of authority Nelson instantly recognizes. A potential buyer.
“This is the last of our ships,” Helen says brightly, her tone light but poised. The faint lilt in her voice suggests both confidence and relief. “If this cruise is smooth, I’ll finalize the transaction with you. It will be yours to command.”
A low hum of agreement follows from the man, his reply too faint to hear as Nelson draws near. Every muscle in Nelson’s stomach twists as he passes them. He pulls his hat lower over his brow, adjusting the glasses on his nose, biting down on the growl threatening to rise in his throat. His hold on the leather case grows so tight his knuckles ache. He quickens his pace, brushing past her without so much as a glance—though every nerve in his body burns with the effort to suppress his fury.
Helen doesn’t notice. She laughs softly at something the man says, a melodic sound that drifts over the ship’s deck, mingling with the salty sea air.
Nelson keeps walking, his steps heavier now, each one echoing the silent mantra that has carried him this far.
The salty breeze of the ocean wraps around Nelson like a suffocating weight, mingling with the faint aromas of cigars and expensive perfumes emanating from the First-class deck. His polished shoes tap softly over the planks as he stalks through the crowd, a predator honing in on its prey. There, a few yards ahead, Helen glides through the glimmering space as if she owns it—the pale gold fabric of her gown catching the sunlight, her laugh crisp and hollow as she exchanges pleasantries with a man in a tailored suit. Beside her, the pram wobbles gently with her every step, carrying her pride and joy, little Roy Jr., oblivious to the malice brewing mere feet away.
Nelson’s stomach coils like a snake preparing to strike. The boy in the stroller represents everything that was taken from him—not just fortune, but the sense of certainty and belonging that came with being his father's son. Now, that woman—Helen, the thief, the usurper—wears what should have been his life like a garish badge of triumph. His chin tenses, jaw twitching ever so slightly. He mumbles, tasting the bitterness on his tongue. “You’ll get yours soon enough.”
The world around him pulses with laughter and chatter, the clinking of delicate glasses filled with champagne, the rustle of silk gowns brushing past broad-shouldered tuxedos. Another life entirely—one that he once had the key to. As his pace quickens, his polished shoe scuffs loudly against the wooden deck, but no one notices. He allows himself to linger in her shadow, studying how casually she claims this world as though it owes her every luxury.
Without warning, a finely dressed woman with pearls dangling around her slender neck collides into his side, halting his momentum. “What are you doing, sir?” Her accent is clipped, each word crisp as paper folded with precision.
Nelson straightens, tilting forward slightly, as if the wind itself is calling him back to his focus. He does not reply—not to her, not to anyone. Her words barely register. Everything else is blurred except for Helen, her powdered smile, her saccharine gestures, her oblivion. He grimaces as the woman huffs under her breath and brushes past him.
Helen is still smiling, her laugh tinkling like the fragile china used at Sunday dinners. To everyone else, she looks the essence of elegance, a devoted mother, a woman endlessly praised. But Nelson knows—he knows the dark tendrils under her immaculate shell. He knows what she did. His gaze fixes on her once more, the corner of his lip twitching as his anger bubbles beneath the surface, eager to erupt.
“Laugh it up, Helen,” he murmurs through clenched teeth, his voice swallowed by the hum of the ship. His hands tremble before he shoves them deep into his pockets, his knuckles pressing into the fabric as if by sheer force he could suppress the storm brewing within him. But not for long. No, not for long. Helen has had her time to shine. Soon, the deck beneath her expensive shoes will tremble. She just doesn’t know it yet.
