When we finally pulled over it was at what I could recognize to be a marina, and as we got out Raphael threw the keys to a crisply-suited man, offering a greeting as we passed by.
We stopped at a sailing yacht, a gorgeous ship bobbing in the tranquil blue waters. I felt my eyes popping out of my head.
Sutton smiled, whistling and promptly being handed a bottle of champagne by another man in a uniform.
“Would you do the honours?” he asked, handing it to me.
He wanted me to christen the boat. I ran my eyes over its hull, feeling myself freeze.
Engraved on the side, in swirling black script, was the yacht’s name.
“She needed a name,” Raphael explained, sounding bored, “And I couldn’t think of one more fitting.”
I held the champagne bottle around its neck, raising it uncertainly. Sutton nodded, looking amused, and I brought it down on the yacht’s bow, jumping as glass and champagne flew in the aftermath.
“Now, let’s take her for her maiden voyage.” He said, gesturing at the men in uniform.
The yacht was made ready to leave the dock and we climbed on from a set of lowered stairs, Raphael slipping a black lifejacket over my head and securing it before donning his own.
He went about checking a bunch of things, and I satisfied myself by scanning the horizon. It was still pretty early in the morning, the moon gone but the sun still not up. I was refreshed from my nap and watched, fascinated, as Raphael hoisted the sails from their slumber.
I was on a yacht. I, Katarina Abromovich, was on a yacht that was named after me by an equal parts arrogant and attractive millionaire.
Life was good.