Chapter 5: A Splash of Romance, Part 1

The salty air whipped through my hair, carrying with it the scent of sunscreen and that distinctly luxurious aroma of freedom that only seemed to cling to yachts. My parents, in their element, were lounging on the white leather seats at the front. Mom, with her oversized sunglasses and a wide-brimmed straw hat, looked like she'd stepped straight out of a magazine spread. Dad, meanwhile, was trying to teach Stefan the finer points of tying nautical knots, which mostly involved Stefan nodding along patiently while secretly checking his phone.

Me? I was leaning against the railing, gazing out at the endless expanse of turquoise water. The Jardin de la Mer resort, our family’s pride and joy, stretched along the coastline, a picturesque blend of lush greenery and buildings. The yacht cut through the waves, leaving a foamy trail in its wake.

"Enjoying the view, Sacha?" Mom's voice, cheerful and bright, pulled me out of my thoughts.

"It's…something," I replied, my tone drier than the champagne Dad had been generously pouring. To be honest, I wasn't much of a "yacht person." This whole lavish display, while impressive, felt a bit over the top.

Stefan, bless his soul, must have sensed my mood because he ambled over, his presence instantly filling the space beside me with a comfortable warmth.

"Penny for your thoughts?" he asked, leaning against the railing, his arm brushing against mine. At 21, and after four years in a Tibetan monastery, Stefan had returned with an even more serene aura. While I was a ball of nervous energy, Stefan exuded this calm vibe that was strangely calming.

"Just thinking about how I'd rather be trying out that new macaron recipe," I confessed, my gaze drifting back to the resort.

Stefan chuckled, the sound deep and rumbling. "Always the chef." he teased, gently nudging me with his elbow.

"Someone's gotta be." I shot back, rolling my eyes playfully. Even after all these years, Stefan’s presence had a way of disarming me. Maybe it was because he treated me like a normal person, unlike some of the people I had "dated" (just lunch and dinners), who seemed more interested in my looks than my personality.

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Lunch on the yacht was a lavish affair. Platters of freshly grilled seafood, vibrant salads, and crusty bread were laid out on a table adorned with crisp white linens. It was the kind of scene that screamed "Instagram influencer," and I had to stifle a groan when Mom insisted on taking a family photo.

"Come on, Sacha, smile a little," she chided, her phone held high as she framed the shot.

I forced my lips into what I hoped resembled a pleasant expression. Stefan, ever the accommodating brother, slung an arm around my shoulders and smirked, the kind that suggests he's plotting something. It makes me wonder what's going on in his head.

As we ate, the conversation flowed easily. Dad regaled us with tales of his latest business ventures, Mom talked about her upcoming charity luncheon, and Stefan... well, Stefan mostly listened. He had that effect on people; drawing them out and making them feel heard. Even though I'm sure his thoughts were somewhere else, it was still a quality I both admired and envied.

Later, as the yacht cruised slowly back towards the marina, I found myself lost in thought again. My life, in many ways, felt like a facade. The perfect son, the talented chef, the dutiful heir to the Jacques family legacy. It wasn't that I wasn't grateful for what I had. It’s just that sometimes, beneath the surface of it all, I felt…lost.

Sensing my mood shift, Stefan subtly moved closer, his warmth a comforting presence against the cool sea breeze. He didn't pry or offer platitudes. He just sat there, a silent pillar of support, and somehow, that was enough. He was looking at my head intently, his eyes moving with scrutiny, probably searching for dandruff.

Anyway, I knew that even amidst the extravagance and the seeming perfection, I had something truly special: family. And maybe, just maybe, that was all that truly mattered.

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The gentle rocking of the yacht lulled me into a state of pleasant drowsiness. I was thinking about ordering another glass of iced tea when a splash of bright pink caught my eye.

"What in the…" I squinted, leaning forward in my seat. A jetski zipped across the water, its rider a blur of flowing fabric and windblown hair. She was perched on the seat sideways, like a model in a particularly extra photoshoot, her brightly colored dress billowing around her.

"Is she…wearing a dress?" Stefan asked, his voice laced with amusement. I had to hand it to the woman, she certainly committed to the look.

Even Dad, usually engrossed in his financial news on his tablet, glanced up, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. "Well, that's certainly a new way to travel," he commented, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

Mom, never one to miss a fashion critique, adjusted her sunglasses. "Darling, that much chiffon is simply impractical for watersports," she declared, shaking her head.

Before any of us could fully process the absurdity of the situation, the unthinkable happened. One minute the woman was a vision of pink and grace, the next she was airborne. The jetski, as if rebelling against its fashion-forward passenger, flipped over, tossing her into the water with a dramatic splash.

"Oh my God!" Mom gasped, clutching her chest.

Stefan's loud, surprised snort as the woman went flying startled me more than the actual incident. Had he been sipping his beloved strawberry milk again? Of course, he had. I shot him a "seriously?" look, but my admonition died in my throat as Stefan started choking, his face turning the same shade of pink as the unfortunate woman’s dress.

"Stefan!" Mom shrieked, her maternal instincts kicking in at the sight of her youngest in distress. Dad, ever the pragmatist, thumped Stefan on the back. Hard.

"Easy there, son," Dad chuckled, "Wouldn't want to lose you to a rogue strawberry milk."

By some miracle, Stefan sputtered back to life, his coughs echoing across the water. It was then that we noticed the woman had resurfaced, her head bobbing in the water. She calmly pushed her sunglasses back up her nose, the picture of composure, like she’d just emerged from a casual dip in the ocean.

"Well, thank goodness she’s alright," Mom breathed, visibly relieved.

But my relief was short-lived. The woman, instead of swimming towards the overturned jetski, began to flail her arms, her cries for help barely audible over the sound of the waves.

"Wait, is she… drowning?" I asked, my heart plummeting to my stomach. This whole thing had gone from bizarre fashion statement to potential tragedy in the span of five minutes.

"Drowning after that dramatic exit? How embarrassing," Mom muttered, shaking her head. I think she’d been watching too many reality shows.

Panic seized me. "Someone do something!" I yelled, my voice cracking with urgency. Dad was already on his feet, but he seemed frozen, unsure how to help. Mom, bless her soul, was still critiquing the woman's choice of swimwear.

"That's what she gets for wearing a dress on a jetski," she muttered, shaking her head. "It's simply asking for a fashion tragedy."

Stefan, still red-faced from his near-death-by-strawberry-milk experience, coughed out, "Sacha… you're the best swimmer…"

He was right. I might not have Stefan's brawn or height, but I was a surprisingly strong swimmer, thanks to years of intense swim lessons Mom insisted on (apparently, knowing how to swim gracefully was a crucial life skill for a Jacques heir). But this was different. This was a moving yacht, a strong current, and a woman who was clearly in distress.

But there was no time to overthink it. Taking a deep breath, I sprinted towards the railing. My heart was pounding in my chest, a frantic drumbeat against my ribs. My eyes darted back for a split second, catching Stefan’s wide-eyed gaze. He gave me a reassuring nod, a silent "You got this."

I needed no further encouragement.

Okay, I know this looks bad. Actually, it probably is bad, but hear me out. There I was, about to fling myself off a moving yacht, a perfectly good iced tea abandoned on the table. A woman was drowning, my family was panicking (well, except for Mom, who was critiquing fashion choices in the face of near-death), and my brother almost just choked on his strawberry milk. If this was a drama, it’d be a comedy of errors.

But this wasn't a drama; this was my life. And as the eldest of Jacques children, a certain flair for the dramatic was practically embedded in my DNA. So, before logic could catch up with my impulsive nature, I struck a pose.

Standing on the railing, the wind whipping my linen shirt and shorts, I flashed a peace sign beside my cheek in dramatic slow motion, imagining it as Sailor Moon would. My reflection in the water below seemed to wink back at me. It was a ridiculous, completely unnecessary move, but in that moment, it felt right.

"Sacha, what are you doing?!" Mom shrieked, finally noticing my less-than-subtle attempt at heroism. But it was too late. With a final, hasta-la-vista look at Stefan, who appeared equally terrified and exasperated, I took the plunge.

The world became a rush of cold water and churning white as I plunged beneath the surface. The yacht’s engines roared above, a distant rumble in my ears. For a split second, I felt a pang of regret for that iced tea. Then, my training kicked in.

As I pushed through the water, each stroke felt like an eternity. My lungs burned, and the ocean's salt stung my eyes, but my determination kept me moving. I could see the jetski in the distance, bobbing lightly against the waves, and the woman—still flailing—was my only focus.

Suddenly, just as I was about to reach her, she stopped flailing. I blinked, a wave of confusion crashing over me. I took another stroke, now pushing myself to see what was happening.

To my surprise, the woman was back on her jetski, gracefully repositioning herself. She sat sideways, her dress now a tangled mess yet somehow glamorous even when dripping wet. With a flick of her wrist, she began fixing her hair as if she hadn’t just been moments away from distress. The contrast was surreal.

"Hey! Are you—?" I called out, gasping for air, but my words tumbled into the sea. She looked at me, her expression a mix of intrigue and amusement, as if she were more fascinated by my desperate attempts than concerned for her safety.

"I’m fine!" she shouted back, brushing her hair away from her face as if the ocean had just been a minor inconvenience. "I had a leg cramp! But look, I’m back!"

I couldn’t help but blink, my heart still racing from the swim. Leg cramp? Yeah, getting thrown from a flipped jetski will probably do that. This entire scene felt like something out of a wild daytime drama—a woman who appeared to be drowning only to emerge looking like a fashion icon. I shook my head, trying to regain my composure.

"Do you always go jet-skiing in a dress?" I asked, swimming closer but still keeping a safe distance, a mix of bewilderment and relief flooding me.

"It’s called making a statement." she shot back, confidently and seemingly serious about it.

I couldn’t help but laugh, the absurdity of the situation breaking through the tension. There I was, the aspiring chef of The Grand, dripping wet, and in serious need of a towel, having a conversation about fashion statements in the middle of the ocean.

I glanced back at the yacht, where I could see my family—Mom was still fussing over her sunglasses, Dad had a furrowed brow as he leaned over the railing, and I could just make out Stefan, who seem to be scratching his belly.

"Your family looks concerned," she noted, tilting her head towards the yacht and leisurely untangling her hair with her fingers.

Before I could even respond to her remark about my family, a trio of jetskis zipped toward us, their engines roaring over the sound of the waves. The riders, all in matching sleek wetsuits, looked like they had just rolled off the set of an action movie. It was as if the woman hadn’t been alone at all; her entourage had arrived, no doubt summoned by her dramatic escapade.