Brock gave a firm nod and turned to Marsha. “Come with me, Miss Wilde. You’ve been through enough this time.”

“Thank you,” Marsha murmured, lowering her gaze to the greasy strands of her hair and the foul odor stubbornly clinging to her clothes. The thought of appearing before others in such a filthy, disheveled state made a flush of embarrassment creep up her neck.

Yet, unlike the relentless judgmental stares of high society, the respectful and considerate demeanor of the naval crew eased her discomfort, allowing her to breathe a little easier.

Meanwhile, Rylie was led firmly into Brad’s cabin, his hand clasped around hers as though he couldn’t bear to let her slip away again. She glanced down at her own clothes, streaked with blood and soaked by sea spray, then at his hand gripping hers so tightly.

“Brad, let go. I really need a shower. I’m a mess,” Rylie said, her voice firm and unyielding.

Her sharp, bossy tone eventually forced him to release her, though every motion showed how unwilling he was to let go.

He moved to the bathroom door and opened it for her, his gaze lingering on her face, half-hidden beneath the mask, and the tangle of damp hair clinging to her cheeks. His deep, narrow eyes held a quiet, unshakable concern. “I’ve left some clothes for you by the door,” he said, his voice low but firm. Before shutting the bathroom door behind her, Rylie tossed a small USB drive his way. “This has the evidence on Ronan. You’ll want to go through it.”

Brad caught it with effortless precision, his expression unreadable as he turned toward his desk and plugged it into the computer. At the same time, he gave quick instructions for the ship’s kitchen to prepare a meal.

The footage Marsha had managed to record with her concealed miniature setup had been carefully trimmed and assembled before it reached Brad’s hands. Not a single frame contained Rylie, yet it clearly captured Ronan’s vile crimes—the trafficking of children, the crude medical equipment littering the ship, the twisted faces of his accomplices, and finally, the harrowing scene of their ship being ambushed and looted by pirates.

Every second of the evidence was flawlessly pieced together, leaving no visible gaps, no obvious tampering to trace. Even with Brad’s expertise, he couldn’t restore what had been deliberately erased, nor uncover the full truth hidden beneath the edits.

He pulled the USB drive free, studying it in silence for a long moment. Then, as the sound of water running in the bathroom faded, Rylie appeared in the doorway. Her damp hair clung loosely over her shoulders, a plain T-shirt and shorts draping her frame. Her bare feet padded softly against the floor as she stepped out.

The ship offered no slippers for comfort, and Brad pointed toward a neatly folded pair of white socks on the bed. His voice was low but firm as he said, “The floor is cold. Put these on.”

“It’s hot,” Rylie said, tossing the towel in her hand aside. As she relaxed, her stomach began to growl. “Is there anything to eat?”

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