The sun, a merciless disc of hammered gold, reigned supreme in a sky bleached of all mercy. It beat down upon the Adriatic, transforming the sea into a vast, shimmering plain of liquid sapphire and turquoise. On the deck of the Sirena, a sixty-five-foot masterpiece of teak and gleaming white fiberglass, Jure Barišić felt the sun's gaze like a physical weight, a familiar pressure he had long ago learned to ignore. At fifty-seven, his face was a testament to that enduring indifference; it was a landscape of leathery, sun-cured skin, cross-hatched with the fine lines of squinting into a thousand horizons and creased with the deeper grooves of decisions that had broken lesser men. His hair, a thick, silvered mane, was swept back from a forehead that seemed perpetually set in a slight, calculating frown. His eyes, the colour of old whiskey, held a flinty sharpness that missed nothing—the shift of the wind on the water, the subtle flicker in a business associate's gaze, the precise value of everything he surveyed.
And he surveyed a great deal.
The Sirena cut through the water with a low, powerful hum, a sound that was the very heartbeat of his solitude. He stood at the helm, his large, capable hands resting lightly on the polished wheel. He was a man built of solid, uncompromising stock, his frame still powerful beneath his crisp, white linen shirt, which was open at the neck, revealing a glimpse of sun-browned chest and a simple gold chain. The air was thick with the smells he loved most: the salty tang of the sea, the faint, clean scent of diesel, and the rich aroma of teak oil.
He was escaping. It was a ritual, this solo voyage down the Dalmatian coast. It was a temporary abdication from the throne of his own making—Barišić Holdings, a sprawling empire of shipping, tourism, and real estate that had its tentacles deep in the flesh of the new Croatia. In Dubrovnik, in Split, in Zagreb, his name was spoken with a mixture of respect, envy, and fear. He was a king, but his crown was heavy, forged in the chaotic fires of the post-Yugoslavia years, a time when fortunes were made not by the faint of heart, but by those willing to grasp opportunity with both hands, no matter how bloodied they became. His conscience, once a flickering candle, had been snuffed out decades ago by the relentless winds of pragmatism. What remained was a cool, calculating emptiness, a void he tried to fill with acquisitions, with victories, and on days like this, with the vast, impersonal beauty of the sea.
He was heading for a place he thought of as his own. Not on any deed, not marked on any public chart, but his by right of discovery and by the simple, unassailable fact that he was the only one who ever went there. It was a cove, a tiny, almost imperceptible incision in the rugged coastline south of Dubrovnik, accessible only by a narrow, treacherous channel known only to a handful of local fishermen too old to care and to Jure, who had paid one of them a small fortune in cash for the secret twenty years ago.
He nudged the throttles, the engines responding with a deeper-throated growl. The coastline here was a dramatic spectacle of nature's brutal architecture. Limestone cliffs, bone-white and sheer, plunged into water of such impossible, luminous blue it seemed to be lit from within. The pines clung to the rock faces with tenacious roots, their dark green a stark contrast to the blinding white and blue. It was a landscape that tolerated no softness, and Jure felt a kinship with it.
He approached the entrance to the channel, a mere slit in the cliff face that from the open sea looked like a solid, impenetrable wall of rock. It was a navigational nightmare, a gauntlet of submerged, razor-sharp rocks that could gut a hull in seconds. He had memorized the path, a serpentine dance of slight turns and aligned landmarks. A single, lightning-blasted cypress tree on the eastern ridge had to kiss the tip of a distant, pyramid-shaped islet. A specific, rust-coloured stain on the cliff face had to be directly amidships.
His whiskey-coloured eyes narrowed, focusing completely. This was a part of the ritual he enjoyed—the concentration, the absolute demand for precision. It was a clean, simple problem with a clear, binary outcome: success or catastrophic failure. Unlike the problems of his business life, which were always murky, fraught with human unpredictability and legal ambiguities.
He took a slow, deliberate breath, the salt air filling his lungs. He cut the engines back to a bare idle, and the Sirena ghosted forward, nudged by the gentle swell. The shadow of the cliffs fell over him, cool and abrupt. The sound of the sea changed, from the open-water slap of waves against the hull to a softer, echoing lap against the confined stone walls. He was in the channel. It was so narrow he could almost reach out and touch the damp, barnacled rock on either side. The water here was darker, a deep, mysterious green. Sunlight only penetrated in scattered, shifting coins of light that danced on the stone.
For five tense minutes, he guided the yacht through the labyrinth, his hands making minute adjustments on the wheel. Then, the channel widened abruptly, and he was through.
The cove.
It was as perfect as he remembered. A near-circular bowl of water, perhaps two hundred yards across, so still and protected it was like a liquid mirror. The surface was a flawless, unbroken sheet of glass, reflecting the cliffs and the perfect, cerulean sky with such fidelity that the line between reality and reflection blurred. At its heart, the water deepened to a profound, luminous violet-blue, a colour that seemed to suck the light in and hold it deep below. Around the edges, over a bed of pure white pebbles, it shifted to a transparent, glowing turquoise. A small, crescent-shaped beach of those same white pebbles nestled at the far end, backed by a thicket of oleander and myrtle, their pink and white blossoms filling the still air with a heavy, cloying perfume.
The silence was absolute, broken only by the gentle, metallic creak of the Sirena's hull and the distant, lonely cry of a gull high above the cliffs. This was it. His sanctuary. The one place on earth where the weight of being Jure Barišić seemed to lift, if only for a few hours. Here, there were no sycophants, no rivals, no memories of a failed marriage, no ghost of a son whose gentle nature felt like a personal reproach. There was only the sun, the stone, and the sea.
He killed the engines. The sudden silence was profound, a physical presence that settled over the cove. He walked to the stern, his deck shoes making soft, sure sounds on the teak. He prepared to drop the anchor, the chain rattling in the stillness like a burst of gunfire before it plunged into the depths, the rope running through his hands with a familiar, rough warmth.
It was then, as the boat settled, swinging gently on its anchor line, that his eyes, scanning the perfect crescent of the beach as they always did, caught the anomaly.
A splash of colour.
Not the bright pink of the oleander or the green of the foliage. Something paler. Something… organic.
He froze, his hand still on the anchor line. A jolt of pure, undiluted anger flashed through him. An intruder. Someone had found his place. Campers? Tourists on a stolen dinghy? His jaw tightened. He would have them removed. He would buy the entire headland if he had to. He would…
He squinted, his sharp eyes trying to resolve the shape. It was lying at the water's edge, where the gentle lap of the waves kissed the white pebbles. It was long, and… formless. A discarded sail? A bundle of rags?
He strode to the flybridge, grabbing the powerful binoculars from their bracket. He raised them to his eyes, the world snapping into hyper-focused detail. The pebbles on the beach became individual stones. He could see the veins on the oleander leaves.
He trained the glasses on the shape.
And the world stopped.
It was not a sail. It was not rags.
It was a body.
A human body. A woman's body.
She was lying on her side, facing the water, one arm outstretched as if reaching for the sea. And she was utterly, completely naked.
The breath caught in Jure's throat. The binoculars felt heavy in his suddenly numb hands. He adjusted the focus, his heart now hammering against his ribs, a frantic, wild rhythm that was entirely alien to him.
Her skin was pale, almost luminous against the white pebbles and the deep tan of his own arms. It was crisscrossed with faint, pink scratches, as if she had been dragged through the thorny maquis that covered the cliffs. Her hair was a wild, tangled mane of dark blonde, shot through with lighter streaks of gold and honey, curls matted with sand and salt, fanning out around her head like a bizarre, sun-bleached halo. Even from this distance, through the lenses, he could see the elegant line of her spine, the gentle curve of her hip, the long, slender length of her legs.
She was not moving.
A thousand thoughts, cold and practical, fought for dominance in his mind. A drowning. A suicide. A murder victim dumped from a boat. This was a complication. A problem. It meant police, questions, paperwork, the vile stench of scandal. His name in the tabloids. Wealthy Businessman Finds Naked Body on Secret Cove. He could already see the headlines.
He should turn around. Right now. Start the engines, pull up the anchor, and leave. Sail back to Dubrovnik and report it anonymously from a payphone. Let someone else find her. It was the smart thing to do. The clean thing.
But he didn't move.
He was transfixed. There was a profound, unsettling vulnerability to the scene. The utter nakedness, the solitude, the way she seemed both a part of the landscape and a terrible violation of it. It was like stumbling upon a secret the sea had coughed up and then forgotten.
He lowered the binoculars. The silence of the cove was no longer peaceful. It was oppressive, watchful. The cliffs seemed to lean in, waiting to see what he would do.
"Damn it," he muttered, the curse ripped from him.
He moved with a sudden, decisive energy. He went below deck, grabbing the large, Turkish towel from the head, and a first-aid kit, more out of habit than any real hope. He kicked off his deck shoes, not wanting to fill them with water, and climbed down the swim ladder at the stern, the cool water soaking his linen trousers instantly, clinging to his calves.
He waded ashore, the white pebbles shifting and crunching under his bare feet. The water was shockingly cold, a stark contrast to the sun-warmed air. With each step, the woman's form became clearer, more real, more terribly human.
He stood over her, his shadow falling across her pale skin.
Close up, she was even more of a shock. She was young, perhaps in her early twenties. Her body was a masterpiece of youthful grace—slender, but with the soft, rounded curves of womanhood. The scratches on her skin were superficial, but numerous. A dark bruise was blooming on her shoulder. Her face, half-buried in the curtain of her hair, was possessed of a delicate, almost unreal beauty. High cheekbones, a straight, fine nose, lips that were full and pale.
He knelt beside her, the pebbles digging into his knees. He reached out, his fingers, usually so steady, trembling slightly. He pressed them against the side of her neck, just below the jawline, feeling for a pulse.
For a terrifying second, he felt nothing. Just the cool, smooth skin.
Then, a faint, thready flutter. A fragile rhythm of life, so weak it felt like it might vanish with his next breath.
She was alive.
The relief that washed through him was immediate and surprisingly powerful, followed instantly by a new wave of complication. An alive woman was a different category of problem altogether.
"Hello?" he said, his voice rough, unnaturally loud in the silence. "Can you hear me?"
There was no response. Not a twitch. Her unconsciousness was absolute.
He had to get her out of here. The sun, while not directly on her now, would soon move across the cove. She was exposed, vulnerable. He unfolded the large towel, its thick, soft cotton a stark contrast to the harshness of the pebbles. How to move her? He was a strong man, but she was a complete unknown. A limp body was awkward, heavy.
He slid one arm carefully under her knees, the other under her shoulders. Her skin was cool, but not deathly cold. As he lifted her, her head lolled back against his arm, her hair falling away from her face completely.
He froze, staring.
In the shadow of the cliffs, her face had been pale and beautiful. Now, in the full, unfiltered light of the cove, it was something else entirely. It was the face of a myth, a face that belonged on a fresco or a ancient coin. But it was her utter helplessness that struck him most deeply. Here was a creature of such rare and delicate beauty, utterly broken and abandoned. A priceless vase shattered on the shore.
A possessive instinct, primal and deep, stirred within him. It was the same instinct that had driven him to acquire companies, properties, and artworks he didn't need. The instinct to take something of value and make it his. This was not a person to him in that moment; she was a discovery. A treasure. His treasure.
He wrapped the towel around her as best he could, covering her nakedness, a gesture that felt oddly proprietary rather than protective. He lifted her fully. She was surprisingly light, as if her bones were hollow, like a bird's. She made a small, soft sound, a mere exhalation, but it was not a sound of waking. It was the sound of deep, profound oblivion.
Carrying her, he waded back into the water. It was harder going now, with the weight in his arms and the pebbles shifting under his feet. The water soaked him to his waist. He reached the swim ladder and the real challenge began. He couldn't climb with her in his arms.
He laid her over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, her torso hanging down his back, his arm clamped firmly around her legs. The towel slipped, and the cool, smooth skin of her thigh was against his cheek. He gritted his teeth, focused on the task. He climbed, the ladder groaning under their combined weight. He hauled them both over the stern rail and onto the deck, collapsing for a moment on the warm teak, breathing heavily, the woman sprawled limply beside him.
He looked down at her, at the tangled hair stuck to her damp face, the pale, vulnerable length of her sprawled on his deck. On his boat. A strange, unsettling thrill ran through him. He had taken her from the sea. He had claimed her.
He stood up, his decision made. There would be no police. Not yet. Not until he understood what he had found.
He lifted her again, more easily now, and carried her down the few steps into the master cabin. The room was cool, paneled in rich, honey-coloured wood, the large bed neatly made with crisp, white linen. He laid her on the bed, the towel falling away. He didn't try to cover her again. He just stood there, looking.
The cabin's soft, indirect lighting seemed to worship her. It highlighted the delicate architecture of her collarbones, the gentle swell of her breasts, the narrow waist, the dark blonde triangle of hair at the junction of her thighs. She was a statue of alabaster and gold, a piece of living art.
He became aware of his own breathing, harsh and loud in the quiet cabin. He became aware of a tightness in his gut, a coiling of desire so immediate and so potent it shocked him. It had been years since he had felt such a raw, untempered hunger. It was not tender. It was not loving. It was the desire of a collector for his prize, of a conqueror for his spoils.
He forced himself to turn away. He pulled the white duvet over her, covering her from neck to toe. The act felt like sealing something in a crate.
He returned to the deck, his wet trousers clinging unpleasantly to his skin. The cove no longer looked like a sanctuary. It looked like a crime scene. Or a birthplace. He wasn't sure which.
He moved to the helm, his movements brisk and efficient. He started the engines, the powerful rumble once again shattering the silence. He went forward and hauled the anchor back aboard, the chain clattering and dripping, the rope coiling in a wet, heavy heap.
He took one last look at the beach, at the indentation in the pebbles where she had lain. The sea had already erased any other sign of her. It was as if she had never been there.
But she had. And now she was his.
He pushed the throttles forward. The Sirena turned her prow towards the channel, towards the open sea, towards Dubrovnik. Towards home. Jure Barišić stood at the wheel, his face a mask of grim determination, his whiskey-coloured eyes fixed on the narrowing slit in the cliffs. Behind him, in the cool, dim silence of his cabin, the sea's lost daughter slept on, unaware that her rescue was merely the first link in a new, golden chain.