Chapter 3 - Champagne by the Waves
Down by the oceanfront pool, the afternoon sun was blazing across the turquoise water.
Isla Whitman lay sprawled across a private teak daybed in a sheer silk kaftan, her designer sunglasses perched on her nose as she held an iced flute of Moët.
Marcus sat beside her, wearing an unbuttoned linen shirt and boat shoes, loudly discussing his supposed venture capital deals into his AirPods so the surrounding vacationers could hear.
Seven-year-old Toby sat on the edge of the wooden deck, playing quietly with a plastic dump truck in the sand, looking tired and sunburned.
"Marcus," Isla whined, waving her empty glass toward the waitstaff. "Where is the pool boy? I've been waiting for my second bottle of champagne for fifteen minutes. The service at this dump is atrocious."
"Relax, babe," Marcus said, pausing his fake phone call with a dismissive wave. "I'll talk to the manager later and have them comp the whole cabana bill. When you have our kind of portfolio, these places bend over backward."
"And where is your mother?" Isla snapped, checking her manicured nails. "Toby wants an ice cream, and I am not walking across the hot sand to get it. Go find the old lady in the lobby and tell her to come down here and watch him."
Marcus chuckled, taking a bite of a lobster slider. "Mom's probably still wandering around the gift shop marveling at the seashells. She’s seventy-two, Isla. She thinks getting a free room with an ocean view is the greatest achievement of modern civilization."
"Well, she needs to earn her keep," Isla muttered, adjusting her sunhat. "I didn't let her come on our family trip so she could sightsee. She was supposed to do Toby's laundry and watch him while we went to the gala tonight."
"I'll text her," Marcus said, tapping lazily on his smartphone.
Before his thumb could hit the screen, a shadow fell across their teak daybed.
It wasn't a pool attendant carrying fresh towels.
It was Sarah, the general manager, flanked by two armed resort security officers in crisp black uniforms.
Behind them stood Captain Douglas, his arms crossed over his chest, his military bearing instantly drawing the attention of every sunbather in the VIP enclosure.
Marcus frowned, slipping off his sunglasses with an annoyed, patronizing smirk. "Can I help you, officers? If this is about the noise from our speaker, I already told the attendant we're VIP guests."
"Mr. Marcus Whitman?" Captain Douglas asked, his voice booming over the sound of the ocean waves.
"That's right," Marcus said, puffing out his chest. "Marcus Whitman, managing partner at Whitman Capital. I assume you're finally here to apologize for the mix-up with the penthouse suite?"
Isla sneered from her daybed, swirling the melting ice in her flute. "It took you people long enough. Tell your front desk girl that if she ever treats me like a common tourist again, I'll have her fired before the sun sets."
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Sarah looked down at Isla with an expression of icy, professional pity.
"Mrs. Whitman," Sarah spoke clearly, loud enough for twenty nearby cabanas to hear every single syllable. "You won't be having anyone fired today. In fact, your authorization to remain on resort property was revoked three minutes ago."
