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“Here we are,” the woman in the booth says as she slides two gold-embossed lanyards across the counter toward us. Below our names, there’s crisp silver lettering that reads—VIP GUESTS.

“Marcus is coming down to meet you at the side gate,” she explains. “Please keep these on you at all times, especially when you’re in the backstage areas. Once your tour is over, these will grant you front-of-the-line access for any attraction in the park, as well as complimentary food and beverages at any concession stand. Do you have any questions?”

“No, we’re good, thanks,” I say, grabbing the lanyards.

Max and I step to the side, and he looks at his badge as if it’s a golden ticket to a chocolate factory. “Katie,” he murmurs, looping the ribbon over his neck. “I think your friend might be a slightly bigger deal than you let on.”

“No kidding,” I mutter, putting my pass around my neck as a side door opens and a man in a crisp navy-and-gold Neptune Bay polo steps into the sun.

“Keller party?” he asks, his eyes scanning the small courtyard.

“That’s us.” I wave.

“I’m Marcus. Your guide today.” He offers a firm, professional handshake that matches his energy. “If you’ll both come right this way, please.” He gestures toward a discreet, heavy-duty steel gate tucked between two towering faux-rock walls. A security guard perched on a stool stands as we approach. He performs a quick bag check, then waves us through.

When we step into the back, the polished illusion of Neptune Bay disappears. Back here, it’s all business. The ground is gray industrial concrete instead of themed pavers. We pass a row of double-wide job trailers, a fleet of white golf carts parked in neat rows, and a cluster of employees in damp wetsuits sitting at a picnic table eating lunch.

Marcus leads us over to a pristine six-seater cart with a printed sign taped to the lower windshield that reads, in bold block letters—KELLER. “I’m yours for the next four hours,” he says, hopping into the driver’s seat and patting the steering wheel. “We can do anything you’d like.”

“Anything?” I ask, the word coming out a little breathless as I settle onto the cushioned seat. Max slides in beside me.

“Anything,” Marcus repeats, glancing over his shoulder with a knowing glint in his eye. “Within reason, of course. We can’t let you swim with the sharks, but we can get you close enough to count their teeth.”

Max and I lock eyes, and I can tell that we both know that’s exactly where we want to start. Winner, winner chicken dinner.

“Can you take us on an insider’s tour of Trident’s Run?” I ask.

“Sure thing. Just buckle up and we’ll get going.” Marcus pulls the cart into motion with a soft electric whir, guiding us along a service road that curves beneath the towering skeleton of Trident’s Run. The screams of the passengers and the rumble of the coaster vibrate through the floor of the cart. I notice Max’s knuckles go white as his hand tightens on the edge of the seat.

Without really thinking about it, I reach over and place my hand over his. For a moment, he stiffens under my palm. Then his shoulders loosen. His eyes slowly lift to mine. Something behind them shifts before his fingers curl around mine, giving my hand a gentle squeeze.

My pulse thuds against my ribs. I should let go. Instead, I keep my eyes fixed on the track ahead as my fingers tighten around his as the coaster roars overhead.

“I hope your break room isn’t too close to the track,” I say, pitching my voice over the mechanical roar to lighten the mood. “The noise would drive me crazy.”

“Actually, my department doesn’t have one. We’re usually out with our high-profile visitors,” Marcus says, chuckling. “But if we did, I’d just pop my noise-canceling headphones in.”

“I hope today is a bit of a break for you, then,” I say, leaning back into my seat. “Since you’re just hanging out with average Joes.” I pause. “Actually, I take that back. Max here is a future West End star. Whichever stage is big enough to hold him.”

“Speak for yourself. Katie is the real star,” Max says, lightly elbowing my side. The contact is brief, but the warmth of it lingers. “I’m as average as they come. She’s the one you have to watch out for—she’s a pro tennis player.”

“Not a very good one,” I mumble, the words slipping out before I can filter them.

“See?” Max says to Marcus. “Humble to a fault, this one.”

I’m not sure if it’s more out of politeness or professionalism, but Marcus chooses not to comment. He just steers the cart toward a large, nondescript concrete building that resembles a warehouse. “Here we are,” he says, rolling to a stop.

We climb out and follow him inside the building. Immediately, a wave of cool air spills out, tinged with the scent of salt and filtered seawater.

“After you,” Max says, gesturing for me to step through first.

We follow our guide down a long hallway and into a freight elevator that hums as it carries us up three floors to a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY: TANK TOP ACCESS.

Marcus swipes his card one last time, and as the door swings open, the scale of the place hits me like a physical force.

“Oh,” I breathe, stepping out onto a galvanized steel catwalk.

“Whoa,” Max adds, his voice barely a whisper.