The ship was filthy. Crude. Smelled like sweat and sea rot. She mopped the deck, washed and patched their ragged clothes, and cooked what she could. She taught them how to read and write and shared the old songs she’d grown up with. In return, they taught her a whole new vocabulary of creative curse words—and their own rowdy sea shanties.
They’d sing together, banging out rhythms on broken, out-of-tune instruments, laughing until their sides hurt.
Bianca saw the world from that ship. Star-strewn skies. Enormous creatures she’d never imagined. She braved life-threatening adventures, took shelter from monsoons in grimy caves, and uncovered treasures that gleamed like the sun. The thrill, the sense of freedom—she would never forget it for as long as she lived.
But what she wouldn’t forget, more than anything, was returning to William at the end of it all. To curl up beside him and fall asleep in his bed.
At one port they frequented, Bianca sought out a renowned artist and asked for the same tattoo William had inked across his back. It hurt—badly. She cried. But she didn’t care. She wanted proof. A mark that said: I am his, and he is mine.
Adventure after adventure, year after year, their ragtag crew grew into something greater. Each new ship was larger than the last, more opulent, more imposing.
But with that growth, something shifted. The carefree, rough-and-tumble energy that had defined them was fading. In its place came something sharper. Heavier. Like the glint of steel. The smell of blood in the air. Metallic. Foreboding.
“William got too big for his britches,” Bianca said softly. “He thought he could keep growing without consequences. He was smart, but he was also fragile in ways you wouldn’t expect. The pressure got to him. And it came back to bite him—hard.”
He stopped listening to the people around him. Declared no one was his equal. Threw his weight around as captain. He even started dulling the edges with cheap, watered-down booze.
It all came to a head one unfortunate night.
They were moored at port, sleeping, when a commotion outside jolted her awake. Bianca tried to rouse William, but he was dead drunk and unresponsive.
The door flung open with a bang. Men stormed in—dozens of them. Their own crew filed into the captain’s quarters like an avalanche.
“What’s the meaning of this?!” Bianca shrieked, scrambling to wrap the sheets around her naked body.
This was William’s room. No crew member entered without permission. That, at least, seemed to stir William. He groaned, sitting up, eyes glassy and unfocused from the drink.
“Ah?” he mumbled.
“William,” said the man leading the charge. “This is a mutiny. You’re not fit to lead us. You’re just a noble boy playing captain. We’re done cleaning up after you.”
“What are you—”
He never got to finish the sentence.
Steel flashed. And in the space of a breath, his head hit the floor with a dull, final thud.
Blood erupted from his neck in violent, rhythmic bursts, painting the walls, the sheets, Bianca’s hair, face, and chest. She sat there, frozen in place, staring at the limp, headless body of the love of her life.
The man who’d delivered the killing blow sheathed his cutlass and turned to her.
“Sister,” he said, not unkindly. “We owe you. For the meals, the care, everything. Pack your things and get off this ship.”
“You…”
Bianca finally recognized him as one of the first. One of William’s original crew. He’d been a young, starry-eyed boy back then, always grinning with that single gap in his teeth. When had he become like this? So cold? So senseless?
With a small sack of treasure and a few changes of clothes, Bianca was left at the dock, still drenched in her lover’s blood.
She collapsed onto the wooden planks, crumpling into herself. And from that spot, she watched as the ship sailed off into the horizon.
Smaller. Smaller. Then gone.
It had been thirteen years since she left the island. She was thirty now.
And suddenly, Bianca understood a new truth about herself.
She wasn’t young anymore.
She wasn’t particularly special, either.
“I sold the treasure for a hefty sum and used it to buy my bar. It’s a dingy little spot. Barely fits a dozen people, if that, but for a single woman, it was enough. Well…just barely. I could scrape by, one way or another. Looking back, that sack of treasure must’ve been worth more than I realized. And hard to trace, too. That boy must’ve given me all the good stuff. He really did feel indebted.”
At first, business was slow. But little by little, regulars started to trickle in—men living modest lives who couldn’t afford the big-name places with the pretty young girls pouring their drinks and laughing at their jokes. They’d sit there nursing cheap, watered-down booze, hanging around until close, tossing out the same tired lines and cliched jokes in the hopes of wooing her.
“It was like I’d gone full circle,” Bianca said. “I left that island to escape my fate…only to end up somewhere just like it.”
She gave a hollow laugh.
“The irony’s not lost on me. Every day, when I’m prepping the bar before opening or scrubbing it down after closing, I think of William. And every time, I catch myself looking in the bar mirror. I see a woman who’s losing more and more of her beauty with each passing day. The ‘womanliness’ I used to hate so much…is just fading. No children. Nothing meaningful to show for it. Just another day serving drunks, watching myself disappear bit by agonizing bit.”
“But just so we’re clear,” Sophie cut in gently, “you are still very beautiful.”
Bianca looked at her for a long second. Then smiled—that same slow, bewitching smile that seemed to curl up from somewhere deeper.
“Thank you.”
But it didn’t last. The smile faltered, her brow tightening with something sad.
“There is one regular,” she said, voice softer now. “One man who’s never missed a night. Come snow, sleet, rain, or shine—it doesn’t matter. Every night, without fail, he stumbles through that door at the exact same time. Hair white as snow, eyes fixed on me. And always the same line: ‘Evening, Ms. Bianca. Still kicking, thank the heavens—and all the better for laying eyes on you.’”
Sophie placed a hand over her heart. She felt something warm there.
Bianca caught the gesture and smiled invitingly. For a brief second, Sophie felt like just another patron, stepping into that cozy little bar, drawn in by the glow of the woman behind the counter.
The ambiance seemed to shift just slightly. The air grew hushed; the mood dimmed like a tavern at closing time. Bianca took a slow sip from her teacup, and though Sophie knew it was tea, she couldn’t help but imagine it was something stronger.
“Have a special someone in your life, Ms. Sophie?”
The question came out of nowhere. Sophie froze, which only seemed to amuse Bianca more.
“Oh, you do,” she said, delighted. “No surprise there. You’re young. Tell me, how does that person look at you?”
“No,” Sophie said quietly. “There isn’t anyone.”
“Really?” Bianca’s eyes sharpened for just a moment as if seeing straight through her. Then they softened again, drifting off. “This regular of mine…he looks at me like I’m the sun. Squints like he can’t behold my radiance. Can you believe that? Me. Radiant. An old woman past her prime, soaked once in her lover’s blood, left behind at some lonely port. Now the lowly owner of a cheap little watering hole.”
She gave a quiet laugh. Not bitter. Not quite.
“Some nights, when I’m tired, I snap at him. Say all kinds of things I don’t mean. And still, he just sits there. Smiling. Day after day after day.”
“He sounds like a wonderful person,” Sophie said after a pause.
“Oh, please.” Bianca waved her off. “He’s the furthest thing. Looks like an underfed rat, the scrawny little thing. Always fidgeting. Eyes darting around like he’s afraid the walls are gonna cave in. He’s only ever worked one job in his whole life—treasurer for some back alley shop, gods know where.
“Yes, he does look like he spends his days with his nose in the books, so I’ll give him that. But he’s so serious about it, so wound-up, he’s nearly fifty with no wife, no kids. The only joy he’s got in that dull little life of his is drinking at a dingy bar run by a woman who’s long past her fairy tale ending.”
Bianca’s words were unkind on paper, even cruel. But to Sophie, they seemed anything but.