Chapter 182: Retreat - 2
The morning after arrival on the private Caribbean island broke with a soft, amber hue filtering through the white sheer curtains of the master suite. There was no blaring alarm clock demanding an immediate review of training metrics or tactical sheets. No urgent, flashing notifications required attention. Outside the open windows, the gentle, rhythmic cadence of the ocean served as the sole awakening soundtrack.
Wandering out onto the expansive wooden terrace overlooking the private stretch of white sand, the rest of the household was already congregating.
Milly sat curled comfortably in a wicker armchair, nursing a ceramic mug of steaming tea and watching the water ripple under the morning breeze. A few feet away, Elena stood with her arms crossed, loudly complaining to no one in particular about the humidity interfering with her styling products. Near the edge of the patio, Maria moved effortlessly around a sprawling breakfast setup, ensuring plates of fresh tropical fruit, warm pastries, and rich coffee were arranged with practiced care.
Sitting slightly apart from the bustle, Arthur leaned back in a shaded lounger, a porcelain cup of black coffee resting in one hand while a thin tablet rested on his knee.
Stepping out onto the terrace in simple linen shorts and a t-shirt, a quiet and spotting the family gathered below, a slow walk over to the table preceded the pouring of an espresso.
"Good of you to finally join us," Arthur noted, peering over the rim of his reading glasses with an amused, knowing smirk. "Some of us have been awake since dawn."
"That sounds like a personal choice, Dad," a dry voice replied, taking a sip from the small ceramic cup.
Maria walked over, handing a small plate of sliced mango and pastries across the table. "Eat something. You look like you've lost three pounds of muscle since May."
"That is improbable given the amount of pasta I consumed in Istanbul," came the deadpan objection, though the plate was accepted without further argument.
Milly looked over the top of her tea mug, offering a bright, knowing smile. "He's just grumpy because nobody has asked him for a high press yet."
"I am at peace," Marcus stated, taking a bite of fruit.
"Give it twenty-four hours before he tries to organize the estate staff into a rigid defensive block," Elena muttered under her breath, turning back to complain to her mother about the coastal weather.
---
Over the subsequent days, the rhythm of the island solidified into a blur of sunshine, saltwater, and relentless family bickering.
The Sterling family dynamic operated on a frequency of comfort, where affection was rarely expressed through sappy declarations and far more frequently through teasing.
Arthur and Marcus found themselves sharing quiet moments on the terrace during the hotter midday hours, trading dry observations about global markets, aging joints, and the absurdity of modern media narratives. The father-son bond required no grand gestures; a shared look over a cup of coffee or a dry remark about an incompetent politician communicated a lifetime of mutual respect.
Maria remained the undeniable emotional anchor of the household. Moving between the kitchen, the terrace, and the beach, she constantly ensured everyone was fed, hydrated, and adequately sun-protected, occasionally scolding both Marcus and Elena simultaneously for arguing over trivial matters before melting into a smile when catches were made or meals were shared.
And then there was the sibling friction between Marcus and Elena—a perpetual motion machine of competitive insults and petty sabotage.
The hostility reached its peak during the afternoons, when the family gathered for various lawn and beach games.
On Tuesday afternoon, a high-stakes table tennis tournament was hastily organized on the shaded patio, with Maria reluctantly appointed as the referee.
"That hit the edge of the white line!" Elena shrieked, pointing across the table after a blistering forehand sailed past her brother.
"It missed by four inches," Marcus stated, leaning over the paddle. "Your depth perception appears to be hindered by your lack of factual accuracy."
"You are literally just making up rules as you go!" Elena shouted, turning to the referee. "Mum, tell him he's cheating!"
Maria didn't even look up from her book, turning a page slowly. "I saw nothing. Play on, or I'm confiscating both paddles and making you weed the garden."
Milly stood off to the side, leaning against a pillar with a cold drink in hand, thoroughly amused by the unfolding chaos. "I put five dollars on Elena. He looks unmotivated."
"Wise investment," Elena grinned, smashing the next serve into the net.
The games evolved daily, ranging from beach volleyball matches where Arthur ruthlessly targeted his son with wicked, looping serves, to card games around the dining table where alliances were formed, betrayed, and renegotiated within minutes. Marcus did not win everything; in fact, Elena's determination to humiliate her older brother resulted in several glorious defeats that she celebrated with theatrical, obnoxious enthusiasm.
The turquoise waters of the private bay provided the setting for the afternoon's activity: surfing.
Wading into the warm, crystalline surf carrying sleek fiberglass boards, the family prepared to battle the rolling Caribbean swells. Marcus navigated the breaking water with a smooth, effortless competence, paddling out past the break with clean, practiced strokes.
Milly, gripping her board tightly, stared nervously at the approaching white water.
"This looks more terrifying from down here," she called out, treading water and watching a wave crash nearby.
Paddling over, Marcus balanced casually on his board, looking down at her with a mild expression. "Keep your center of gravity low and commit to the pop-up."
"Easy for you to say. You have the spatial awareness of a fighter jet," she muttered, positioning herself on the foam. "If I drown, tell the West End production crew they have to find someone else to play the tragic heroine."
"Noted."
Laying flat on the board, Milly paddled hard as a moderate swell approached. Pushing up swiftly, the attempt lasted precisely two seconds before a clumsy wobble sent her tumbling backward into the water with a loud, ringing exclamation of profanity.
A laugh echoed across the bay.
Surfacing immediately, shaking wet blonde hair out of her face, Milly glared toward the source of the sound. Elena sat on her board fifty yards away, pointing and laughing hysterically.
"I heard that!" Elena shouted over the waves. "Classic form! Ten out of ten!"
Milly flipped her off good-naturedly, treading water as Marcus paddled closer.
"Defective equipment," Milly accused, wiping saltwater from her nose.
"The equipment is performing within expected parameters. Your timing was late by approximately half a second."
"Oh, shut up and help me before I swim back to New York."
Paddling alongside her, a lean hand reached out to steady her board. "Get back on. We'll time the entry together."
The subsequent attempts involved a mixture of affectionate coaching, falling over, swearing at the ocean, and dry, sarcastic commentary from the instructor. By the fourth wave, however, the timing clicked. Catching the clean face of a rolling swell, Milly popped up cleanly, maintaining her balance and carving a smooth line across the water toward the shoreline.
Emerging onto the sand a minute later, breathless and grinning widely, she shouted back toward the surf.
"Did you see that?"
Marcus floated lazily on his board fifty yards out, raising a single hand in muted approval.
"Acceptable form."
"Acceptable?" she laughed, shaking the water from her hair. "That was magnificent!"
The surfing session eventually dissolved into an afternoon of swimming, floating, and drifting lazily under the tropical sun.
Two days later, the focus shifted from balancing on boards to the chaotic, roaring horsepower of the estate's jet skis.
Standing on the private dock, four sleek machines idled in the water, bobbing gently against the wooden pylons.
"First one to the red marker off the southern point wins," Elena announced immediately, straddling a red machine and adjusting her mirrored sunglasses. "Loser prepares dinner for the entire estate for the rest of the week."
"Accepted," Milly grinned, climbing onto a blue jet ski parked beside her.
Marcus stared at the machines with the suspicion of a man viewing an unnecessary mechanical hazard. "This feels irresponsible."
"Stop complaining and get on," Elena urged, revving the engine with a loud, satisfying roar. "Unless you're scared I'm going to humiliate you in front of your girlfriend."
Climbing onto the remaining machine with a resigned sigh, the engine sputtered to life.
Arthur pulled his jet ski up alongside his son, a competitive spark lighting up his older eyes. "Don't hold back just because I'm fifty-five, Marcus. I'll leave you in the spray."
On the dock, Maria stood with her hands on her hips, shouting over the growing drone of the engines. "Do not behave like idiots! If anyone comes back with a concussion, you are grounded!"
The countdown was handled by Elena, who screamed "GO!" and immediately pinned the throttle, surging away from the dock in a massive plume of white spray.
The race dissolved into unmitigated chaos within ten seconds.
Milly followed closely behind Elena, cutting aggressively across the water, the wind whipping past her face as she laughed aloud. Arthur took a wide-sweeping line that ignored the navigational geography of the bay, charging outward toward the open ocean with reckless abandon.
Trailing near the back of the pack, Marcus maintained a steady, controlled speed, observing the madness unfolding ahead.
Rounding the southern point, the race turned into a battle. Elena, realizing Milly was gaining ground on the inside line, swerved her machine to send a massive wave of saltwater splashing across Milly's visor.
"Hey!" Milly shouted over the roar of the engines, wiping her face and instinctively twisting the throttle harder.
Ganging up instantly, the two women formed a loose, informal coalition, intentionally cutting off Marcus as he attempted to carve an inside line around the final marker.
"Blocked!" Elena yelled triumphantly, swerving sharply to shut the gap.
Instead of fighting for the congested inside line, a sudden, sharp turn swung the jet ski wide, catching the powerful wake generated by Arthur's rogue path.
The resulting wave launched the machine slightly into the air, clearing the clutter of the pack entirely.
Landing smoothly on the other side, the throttle was pinned to the maximum. Surging past both Milly and Elena in a blinding flash of spray, Marcus crossed the imaginary finish line off the southern point a full three seconds ahead of the trailing field, cutting the engine and coasting to a smooth, unbothered stop.
Turning the machine around to face the approaching, sputtering racers, an unimpressed expression was maintained.
Milly idled up beside him, water dripping from her sunglasses, chest heaving from laughter and adrenaline.
"You cheated," she accused, pointing a finger at him.
"I calculated trajectory and wave displacement. Physics is not cheating."
"You're a menace."
Elena roared up moments later, slamming her fists against the handlebars in disgust. "You took the wide line! That violates the spirit of the race!"
"The spirit of the race is crossing the marker first," Marcus replied smoothly, turning his machine back toward the dock. "Dinner is on you, Elena."
The culinary highlight of the second week arrived on a warm, clear Thursday evening.
Having bullied his mother out of the kitchen earlier that afternoon, Marcus took command of the estate's sprawling culinary space. The air filled with the rich aromas of traditional Portuguese cooking blended with American comfort classics—a direct reflection of the family's mixed heritage.
A massive skillet rested on the commercial stove, searing fresh garlic, olive oil, and wild prawns, while a side counter featured a meticulously prepared batch of seasoned vegetables and roasted potatoes.
Standing over the stove, stirring a delicate simmering sauce with a wooden spoon, the serenity of the kitchen was disrupted by the sound of stealthy footsteps.
Slipping silently across the tiled floor, a hand reached out from behind, attempting to pilfer a roasted potato resting on a nearby cooling tray.
Without breaking eye contact with the simmering pan, a pair of tongs snapped shut with lightning speed, clamping down gently on the wrist of the intruder.
A sharp, dramatic gasp echoed through the kitchen.
"Unhand me, monster!" Milly protested, dropping the potato back onto the tray and rubbing her wrist with a wounded expression.
"Quality control is the exclusive responsibility of the head chef," the response was delivered calmly, stirring the sauce.
"I was merely ensuring the potatoes were safe for human consumption. It's a public service."
"Your sacrifice is noted. Step away from the starch."
A moment later, a second shadow materialized near the pantry. Elena crept forward, eyeing a tray of fresh seafood with predatory intent.
"If you touch the prawns, you are banned from the dining table," Maria announced, walking into the kitchen and taking a seat at the marble island with a glass of wine, unfazed by her children's terrorism.
Elena pulled her hand back instantly, flashing an innocent smile at her mother. "I was just checking the counter, Mum."
"Go away, both of you," Maria commanded affectionately, waving a hand. "You are stressing the cook."
Dinner out on the torch-lit terrace that evening was a masterpiece. The family gathered around the table, passing massive platters of food back and forth while the warm ocean breeze drifted across the grounds.
The conversation was light, fast-paced, and frequently chaotic.
---
@FabrizioRomano
🚨 EXCLUSIVE: Manchester United have initiated formal talks with Chelsea for the permanent transfer of Mason Mount. Personal terms discussed. Negotiations ongoing. 🔴⏳
@SkySportsPL
Tottenham officially unveil James Maddison following a £40m deal from Leicester City. Excellent business for Spurs.
@RealMadridEn
ARRIAVA: Jude Bellingham is officially presented at the Santiago Bernabéu. Number 5 shirt. The new era begins. ⚪✨
@Barcelona_Gossip
Unconfirmed: Barça are looking into securing Ilkay Gündoğan on a free transfer. The midfielder is currently on international duty deciding his final destination.
@David_Ornstein
Declan Rice to Arsenal is edging closer. West Ham evaluating the structure of the final £105m bid.
@Bayern_Insider
Harry Kane wants Bayern Munich. The German club preparing a third official bid after two rejections from Daniel Levy.
@PSG_Report
Luis Enrique officially appointed as the new manager of Paris Saint-Germain. The Spanish coach arrives with a massive rebuilding task.
@SaudiProLeague_EN
Ruben Neves and Kalidou Koulibaly officially unveiled by Al-Hilal. The exodus to Saudi Arabia accelerates.
@Juve_News
Timothy Weah signs for Juventus from Lille. First summer reinforcement for the Bianconeri.
@ACMilan_FR
Sandro Tonali to Newcastle United is essentially a done deal. Fee around €70m. Massive blow for the Rossoneri faithful.
@UTDTrey
[Image: Marcus Vale staring blankly into the distance during the parade.]
Caption: Rare photo of Marcus Vale enjoying his summer holiday while the rest of Europe panics over transfers. 🔴🏝️
@TheEuropeanLad
The silence coming out of Manchester United right now is deafening. They signed Palmer, Branthwaite, and Lammens, sold Bruno, and then the manager vanished off the face of the earth. Elite stealth mode.
@AfcVip
Must be nice to win seven trophies and then just ghost the entire transfer window while your recruitment team does all the heavy lifting.
@CFCMod
Rumours linking United to Moises Caicedo now? Please, no. Just leave some midfielders for the rest of us.
@StatmanDave
Fun fact: Manchester United's squad currently has an average age of 24.3 even with Cristiano Ronaldo skewing the numbers. The squad planning is sustainable.
@UnitedStandMUFC
I don't care who we sign next. We have Cole Palmer. We have the Sevenfold. Let the man enjoy his holiday.
@FootballFactly
RUMOUR: Manchester United preparing a shock bid for an unnamed South American wonderkid.