The scent of polished mahogany and fresh sea air fills your senses as you stroll the deck of the Titanic. The ocean stretches endlessly, smooth as glass. You should feel at ease, yet something about this journey tugs at you, like an unread letter waiting to be opened.

Your mother clears her throat beside you, her lace-gloved hand adjusting her hat. “Eleanor, do not gawk. We are not here to make acquaintances with just anyone.”

Too late. Across the promenade, you spot Mr. Whitmore, an elegant yet guarded businessman who’s made a fortune in steel—whispers say he’s running from something. Nearby, Juliette Dubois, a French journalist, sketches in her notebook, always observing, always listening. And just beyond the first-class barriers, a curious young steward named Henry Talbot meets your gaze for half a second before hurrying off—why does he seem so nervous?

Your mother sighs. “We’ll be dining with the Langfords tonight. Try to look… agreeable.”

So this is how the voyage will be—a carefully orchestrated dance of reputation, opportunity, and intrigue.

Unless, of course, you decide to rewrite the script.