Isla liked to think that she approached most things in life calmly.

She could remember the exact moment she'd realized it. She was in her final year at university, taking her final exam. It was a practical — the sort of thing where medical students went from station-to-station, diagnosing actors with fake diseases — and whispers had gone around the room about a station.

"It looks horrible," one girl whimpered. "I saw Jane Zhang cry after it."

"I heard Charlie Miller vomited."

"That's nothing," Tiff had said. "Tabby swore off medicine. She's becoming an art historian instead. Never wants to go through that again, apparently."

When it was Isla's turn to visit the station, she understood why.

It was a child. A little girl, no more than ten-years-old. The actress must have lost her leg at some point because they had covered the severed limb with fake blood. She was whimpering in pain, her lower lip trembling.

"Don't hurt me," the girl had whispered. "Please don't hurt me."

Isla's heart had seized.

It had looked so real. The blood, the girl's terror, the shattered glass around her... later, when Isla thought about the point of the station, she'd wondered if it had been a test of mettle. A test to see who could numb themselves to it.

She'd shut everything down.

Isla hadn't panicked as she'd cleaned of the blood and tied a tourniquet. She'd only spoken in low, soothing tones. She'd told the girl a story about dragons and a fairytale castle. She'd made elevating the girl's leg part of the story, a curse cast by a jealous witch.

After, Isla had rinsed the fake blood off her hands and slid down the wall, staring blankly down the corridor. Tiff came to sit beside her.

"How was it?" Tiff had demanded.

"Horrible," Isla said, shuddering. "Absolutely horrible."

Yes.

Isla Morris was a calm person.

But she was not calm now.

She stormed up to Alek's office, her heartbeat pumping in her ears. She focused on her breathing. The slap of her shoes on the stairs. She kept replaying Matthew's crash, hearing the squeal of the tyres, the crunch of metal.

It wasn't a bad crash.

Logically, Isla knew that. She'd watched enough Formula One races over the years to know when someone would be injured and when someone would be okay. Besides, she'd watched Matthew get out of the car and walk away.

He was fine.

But her hands wouldn't stop shaking.

He'd lied to her. Matthew had promised her that he'd be careful, and then he'd gone and rammed his car into Lucas. In Monaco, of all places.

She raised a hand to the door to knock.

A voice drifted through the wood.

"Do you have any idea," Alek was saying, "what you've cost the company today? Any idea?" Something heavy slammed. "Millions. Hours of labour. A mountain of paperwork. Endless damage control with the press. And for what?" His voice rose. "A joyride into the nearest board?"

Matthew spoke. "Walsh started it. He—"

"I don't care who started it." Alek's voice was a whip crack. "You want to beat each other up? Fine. Kick the shit out of each other. But don't do it in my cars."

Isla smiled thinly.

Good.

At least someone else was furious with Matthew, too.

Isla knocked on the door. "Hello?" she called. "Can I come in?"

There was a pause.

"Enter," Alek called.

Isla peeked her head in. Matthew glanced up, his face incredulous.

"Isla?"

"Sorry," Isla said, ignoring him. "I don't mean to interrupt." She faced Alek. "Someone named Fiona wants to speak with you." This, mercifully, was true — a frantic-looking PR lady had found Isla about twenty minutes ago and begged her to find Alek. She'd seized on the excuse. "Something about a party tonight? And coming up with a press strategy?"

Alek's face darkened. "I'll call her in a minute."

Lucas scowled. "We don't still have to go to that stupid party, do we?"

"That stupid party," Alek said, low and dangerous, "might be the only way to save your career, Walsh. So, yes. You will both put on suits and smile at the cameras and laugh like today was a silly misunderstanding. Do you understand?"

Matthew raised a hand. "Alek?"

"Yes?"

He smiled charmingly. "Will there be an open bar?"

Alek's face was murderous. "You know what? You're both dismissed. Get out of my face. Now."

They didn't need to be told twice.

Lucas bolted for the door. He slowed as he passed Isla — opening his mouth as if to say something — and then shook his head. Purple smudged his eye, the same texture as a bruised plum.

Matthew slung an arm around her waist. "Oh, good," he said. "You made it." He pulled a face as they exited the office. "That was fun, wasn't it?"

Isla waited two steps.

Then she whacked Matthew with her purse.

"Ow!" He rubbed his arm. "What the hell, Red?"

"You promised," Isla said fiercely. "You promised me that you wouldn't do anything stupid, and then you ran right into the bloody wall. Do you know what I—?" She broke off, smacking him again. "Jesus Christ, Matthew!"

Matthew held up his hands. "I didn't have a choice! Lucas was—"

"I don't care about Lucas," Isla burst out. "I'm talking to you."

Matthew's face softened. For the first time, he seemed to take in Isla's face — splotchy, pale with worry — and he winced.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to scare you."

Isla hugged her purse to her chest. "I'm not scared, Matthew; I'm terrified. Every time I watch one of your races, I feel like I'm going to be sick. And seeing you crash, in Monaco of all places..." She shook her head. "I can't take it, Matthew. I can't be— can't be your friend, if you keep doing this."

Can't be with you, Isla almost said. But they weren't together. Not really. Matthew reached for her.

"Isla..."

She shrunk back. "I just want you to be more careful. That's all."

"Okay," he said.

"Do you mean that?"

"I mean it." Matthew's voice was firm. "I'll be more careful." He searched her face. "I hate seeing you like this. Should I just skip the party? I'm not sure if they do churros in Monaco, but we could get ice cream. Head down to the beach."

It was tempting, but... "Alek will kill you."

"I don't mind."

"Well, I do." Isla offered him a small smile. "I like you alive. We'll go to the party."

Surprise flickered across his face. "You're coming with?"

"Obviously. But Matt?"

"Yes?"

"I'm still mad at you," she warned him. "Really mad."

"Oh, good." Matthew winked. "Everything's back to normal, then."

Isla was relieved to find that — this time — the party wasn't on a yacht.

It was at an aquarium.

The Baroque building towered over the sea, a glittering temple rising out of the rock. Inside, blue light filtered through the room, tingeing faces with an eerie glow. All four walls were made of glass. Colorful fish darted past them, streaking through the dark water like comets, and Isla had the bizarre sensation of floating in the middle of the sea.

She took a sip of red wine. "Are you a good swimmer?"

"Why?"

"In case the glass breaks."

"Depends." Matthew skimmed his fingers along the glass, following the path of a stingray. "Largely on if I have water wings."

She smiled reluctantly. "Could you battle a shark?"

"If I had to."

"What if it had really, really big teeth?"

"Isla Morris." It was Matthew's turn to smile. "You're drunk, aren't you?"

"Maybe." Yes.

It wasn't her fault, though.

Matthew had spent most of the party doing damage control with reporters (Alek was circulating the story that both cars had malfunctioned), so Isla had chatted to Alek's wife and drank. One glass. Two. Four. Too late, Isla realized that Norwegians seemed to be immune to alcohol, and she was the only one getting pissed.

Oops.

"Blame Anette," Isla said, waving her wine. "She made me."

"Did she?"

"Mmm." Isla finished her glass. "I'm a victim."

Matthew grinned, reaching out to touch a red curl escaping from her hair ribbon. Isla felt pleasantly fuzzy, a strand of kelp caught in a warm current. Only Matthew's steady blue eyes anchored her.

"I'm not a doctor," Matthew murmured, "but I would prescribe some water."

"Pshh." Isla handed him her glass. "I'm fine. I—"

"Isla?" Matthew asked sharply.

His whole body tensed. Isla spun around, half-expecting Lucas, and froze.

It wasn't Lucas.

It was Emilio Gonzalez, Sebastián's older brother. Sebastián, who had died last year. Who still haunted her nightmares.

And he was coming straight towards them.

Her stomach dropped. "Hide."

Matthew stared. "What?"

"We need to hide!"

Before Matthew could protest, Isla seized his hand, dragging him down the hall. All traces of drunkenness were gone in an instant; she was stone-cold sober. Isla dodged waiters and reporters, giggling guests and a crying commentator ("It's so stressful," he sobbed. "All of those damn drivers! I can't keep up with their drama."). Her mind went on autopilot, assessing each door.

The loo? No.

The kitchens? Too busy.

The cloakroom? Too small.

"Isla," Matthew said, sounding bewildered. "What are you—?"

Her eyes caught on a door.

"In here," Isla hissed, and shoved him inside.

It was a library. Not a traditional library, filled with bookshelves and oil paintings, but a cavernous room cut into the cliff; old scrolls lined the rocky shelves, and a tidal pool was sunk into the middle of it, glowing an otherworldly blue.

"Okay." Matthew crossed his arms. "We're here, in this creepy library. Do you want to tell me what the hell is going on now?"

She swallowed. "That was Emilio."

"I'm aware." Matthew searched her face. "Did he... say something to you? Last year, after the accident?"

"No. We've never spoken."

"Right," he said slowly. "So why...?"

She could see Matthew trying to puzzle it out. Blue light slithered over his arms, wrapping around him in ribbons. His cheekbones were hollowed out. He looked like some ancient sea god, Isla thought with a pang, like Poseidon rising from the depths of the water. Not entirely of this world.

"I can't talk to him," she whispered.

"Why not?"

"Because I feel guilty, Matthew." Her voice sharpened. "Because I watched his brother die and I did nothing. Do you know how that feels? I swore to protect people. Into whatsoever houses I enter, I will enter to help the sick. Every doctor takes that oath."

Matthew's face was calm. "You couldn't have saved him."

"I could have," Isla said, her voice rising, "if you hadn't stopped me."

"Ah." His voice was soft. "And there it is."

They stared at each other. Isla was breathing hard, her chest pumping up and down. She knew what they were both thinking of.

Monaco.

This time, last year.

Isla's nightmare always ended with this part: Matthew, yanking her back, pinning her arms to her side. Matthew, holding her tightly as she thrashed. Matthew, his voice low in her ear. I can't let you go in there, Isla. I can't.

He'd stopped her that day.

If he hadn't, Sebastián might still be alive.

That whole day, Isla reflected, had been a series of unfortunate events, beginning with the thunderstorm. Noah had crashed first. Then Monty Sullivan. The whole thing had turned into a six-car pile-up. The ambulance had been on the other end of the track, paramedics racing around in the rain like ants swarming rotten fruit.

The safety car had gone out.

All drivers were supposed to return to the starting line. That was the protocol. But Sebastián had hit a patch of wet, spun off the track, and crashed into the barrier.

His car went up in flames.

Isla was the only person nearby. She'd left the track earlier — to call Tiff about some date she'd been on, it wasn't important now — and she was the only person to witness the crash. She'd heard Sebastián scream for help.

Nobody else had come. It had been up to her to save him.

Only her.

And she'd failed.

Her hands were shaking. "Do you know how the Hippocratic Oath ends, Matthew? The original one? If I carry out this oath, let me rise; if I break it, let me fall." Blue light flickered between them. "I should have gone into that fire. You should have let me."

Matthew looked suddenly tired. "What is it you want from me, Isla?"

"I told you. An apology."

He ran a hand through his hair. "I meant what I said before. I'm not sorry."

"A man died that day."

"And it could have been you!" Matthew snapped. "God, it could have been you, Isla. Do you think I could have lived with myself if you'd died? If I had to watch you burn?" He looked away, his jaw working. "Even the thought of that... No. I don't regret stopping you."

"I can't forgive you for it," she whispered.

"I know."

She took a step forward. "You've made me doubt myself, Matthew. Every time I'm stitching a patient, or prescribing medications, I doubt myself. I doubt what sort of doctor I am. You did that to me."

"I know," he repeated.

A surge of frustration filled her. "How can you just stand there and—?"

There was a knock on the door.

"Carr?" a male voice called. "Carr, are you in here? Emilio's looking for you. He wants to speak with Isla."

Someone hammered on the door. Isla's head jerked up. She could see her own panic reflected in Matthew's blue eyes. Fuck. The door. They'd forgotten to lock it, hadn't they? She'd been so furious with Matthew — so blindly furious — that she'd completely lost her mind.

And now she was going to pay the cost.

Isla started for the door, but Matthew caught her around the waist.

"Too late," he murmured.

Panic shot through her. "But I—"

"Isla?" he asked.

"What?"

"Trust me," Matthew said, and he kissed her.