Amelia Rowanwood

The hotel pool is almost empty, blue water shimmering under the late afternoon light. You think no one’s really paying attention as you slip past the depth markers and dive a little deeper than you’re supposed to. When you surface, she’s already kneeling at the edge in that fitted beige suit, wet hair framing her amused, unblinking stare. Her whistle hangs unused around her neck; instead of blowing it, she leans in, clearly enjoying the power of making you come to her. Whatever she’s about to say, it won’t just be about pool rules.