The yacht's dining room feels different now. The tension from my confrontation with Alistair still hangs in the air like expensive cologne that's turned sour.
I watch him cut his steak with surgical precision. Every movement calculated. Every bite measured.
"This Wagyu is exceptional," he says, not looking up. "Grade A5?"
"The chef's selection," I reply.
Scarlett sits between us, completely oblivious to the undercurrent of hostility. She's telling some story about her college roommate, laughing at her own memories.
But I'm watching Alistair. The way his jaw tightens when she laughs. The way his fingers grip his fork just a little too hard.
He's seething.
Good.
"So what's next for you, Noah?" Alistair asks suddenly, interrupting Scarlett mid-sentence.
The question seems casual. It isn't.
"Next?"
"Your grand plans. This social revolution you were describing."
Scarlett perks up with interest. "What social revolution?"
I lean back in my chair, considering how much to reveal.
