“We need to salvage this,” Mark said, running a hand through his hair. “The celebration is a PR nightmare now. We have to—” He stopped as Cassandra turned toward him, poised despite the chaos surrounding her.

“Mark,” she said easily, “relax. The market fluctuates. If you let every little bump shake you, you’ll never make it through the day.”

He exhaled sharply. “How can you be so calm? If we don’t act fast, this will be the front-page scandal of every travel site and business paper. 

Cassandra actually laughed. “We’re in the middle of the North Sea. Do you suggest we summon a banquet from thin air?”

"We can fly in catering from Oslo. We can reframe the story—make it about how we went above and beyond for our guests. It'll make the difference between a front-page scandal and a page-six anecdote.”

Cassandra waved him off. “Let the headlines say what they will. By next quarter, this will be a footnote.” She turned on her heel, leaving Mark standing there, frustration etched into every line of his face.

Cassandra strolled away, deep in conversation with a shareholder or potential investor, or perhaps any of the numerous journalists on the voyage.

Maisel finished her coffee and retreated from the open deck and the chilly wind. She was curious what the staff had come up with for dinner and her stomach growled as she wove her way to a table with a few empty seats. The lounge was packed and the room hummed with conversation. Cassandra cut a swath through the crowd and took a seat at the head table.

The crowd shifted and through the gap, Maisel spotted the mousy woman from yesterday at the side of the room like she was trying to remain out of the way.

On the other side of the room from Maisel, Jonathan Henry lounged, his sandaled feet propped up on the chair beside him. He was happily munching on trail mix while he watched the chaos unfold.

Someone brushed the back of Maisel's chair and she turned to see Violetta, eyes firmly on the screen before her face instead of on her chosen path.

“It's day two of the disaster cruise. All the food's going to go bad and no one knows how long it'll be before we can make port again."

Maisel shook her head. That girl would make a drama out of spilled coffee.

Her table guests' conversation caught her attention. “Look at her. She’s not worried,” the man said to his wife as they watched Cassandra schmooze. “She’s got a private chef in her stateroom. She won’t be eating these pre-packaged meals with the rest of us. So much for being VIP shareholders...”

Maisel turned to him. “She brought a chef? On a full-service cruise?”

The man nodded. “Yep. Her assistant—what’s her name? Susan?—handles all her personal needs. Cooking, appointments, everything. Never goes anywhere without her. See there?”

Maisel followed his gesture and for the second time her gaze landed on the mousy woman. She was sitting now, but was still at the edge of the room.

"No, dear. That's Diane." She leaned in and lowered her voice, as if anyone could overhear their conversation in the din. "Diane is her former assistant. Susan is the new one." The last she spoke to her husband, who nodded in remembrance.

Maisel’s mind turned. If Diane had been handling Cassandra’s personal cooking for years, that meant she’d know her way around a kitchen. Would she know how to disable a commercial refrigerator?

The mystery deepens. Stay tuned for more clues in tomorrow’s update.