The dark polished mahogany of the corridor felt less like a luxury finish and more like the side of a casket.
The dark polished mahogany of the corridor felt less like a luxury finish and more like the side of a casket. I pressed my shoulder against the panelling, the wood cool against my damp skin, trying to anchor myself while the boat rolled beneath my feet. My pulse thudded in my ears, heavy and slow, competing with the distant hum of the yacht’s twin diesel engines.
Down the spiral staircase, the soft chime of crystal meeting crystal echoed up the stairwell.
"To three hundred million," my father-in-law, Aidan, murmured. The clink of glasses followed—a bright, festive sound that made my stomach turn over violently.
"Don't celebrate until she’s over the rail, Aidan," Fiona’s voice drifted up, smooth as honey, sharp as a razor. "We’ve spent two years setting this up. I won't have you slurring your words before the Coast Guard arrives."
"She’s out cold," Flynn replied. His tone carried the same light, attentive affection he had used when he brought me a cup of peppermint tea three hours ago. "I checked on her twenty minutes ago. Her breathing is shallow. She won't even realize she’s in the water until her lungs fill up."
I gripped the edge of the doorway, my fingernails digging into the lacquer. The drug Flynn had been feeding me under the guise of sea-sickness medication burned in my veins, making my knees feel like warm tallow. Every breath felt like dragging cold syrup into my lungs.
Two pills every night. For the nausea, sweetheart. Just to help you sleep through the swell.
I had smiled at him when I swallowed them. I had kissed his jaw, running my fingers through his dark, wavy hair, thanking God that out of all the men who only saw my father’s shipping empire, Flynn Sterling had chosen me.
"And the crew?" Aidan asked. I heard the dull thud of a heavy scotch glass hitting a marble tabletop. "Captain Miller isn't an idiot. He’s served her father for fifteen years."
"Miller’s sitting in his cabin right now with a bottle of forty-year-old single malt I gave him for his anniversary," Flynn said softly. "The night watch is young. A kid named Jackson. He’s on the bridge, staring at the radar. When I report her missing at two in the morning, I’ll tell him she was feeling sick, went to the stern to get air, and must have slipped on the wet deck during the swell. Standard accidental drowning. No force. No struggle. Just a tragic loss during a romantic honeymoon."
"And her father’s trust?" Fiona pressed.
"The power of attorney is already filed with my attorney in Miami," Flynn answered. "The moment the search and rescue operation is officially called off, the funds transfer automatically to the Sterling Family LLC. By the time her parents land in St. Lucia for the memorial, the accounts will be wiped clean."
"And the parents?" Aidan repeated, his voice dropping into a register that made the hairs on my forearms stand up.
"Next Tuesday," Flynn replied casually. "Their retreat in the Swiss Alps. The brake lines on the mountain pass transport are already set. The local police will call it ice on the road. The entire Vance line dies out in ten days, and we inherit the shipping fleet along with the trust."
A heavy silence fell below, punctuated only by the rhythmic slap-slap of dark Caribbean waves hitting the hull.
I didn't scream. I didn't burst down the stairs to confront the man I had stood before an altar with seventy-two hours ago. The drug was heavy in my blood, but a cold, blinding clarity rushed in behind it, sharp enough to cut through the fog in my head. If I collapsed now, if I let them see me standing on the stairs, Flynn wouldn't wait until midnight. He would finish it right here, carry my limp body to the stern, and throw me over before the sun went down.
I slowly lifted my heel, easing my weight off the carpeted runner.
Step back. Just one step.
My heel caught the edge of a brass strip along the runner. A tiny, high-pitched creak echoed down the stairwell.
Below, the clinking of glasses stopped instantly.
"What was that?" Fiona asked, her voice snapping tight.
"Probably just the ship working in the swell," Aidan said.
"No," Flynn said. I heard the soft slide of leather soles against the teak parquet flooring below. "The cabin door was latched when I left her. Stay here."
"Flynn," Fiona warned. "If she’s awake—"
"If she’s awake, she’s confused," Flynn said, his voice dropping into that smooth, comforting tone he used whenever I was distressed. "I’ll handle it."
The first heavy, deliberate footstep hit the bottom of the oak staircase.
He’s coming.
Panic tore through the heavy curtain of the sedative. I turned, my limbs fighting me like I was moving through waist-deep mud, and dragged myself down the narrow corridor toward our master suite. My shoulder clipped a framed oil painting of my father’s first cargo ship, sending it rattling against the bulkhead.
May you like
"Cassandra?" Flynn’s voice called out from the turn of the stairs. It was sweet, full of tailored worry. "Sweetheart? Is that you?"
I didn't answer. I reached our cabin door, slid inside, and eased the heavy brass latch down as quietly as my shaking fingers would allow. I scrambled across the carpet, threw off my silk robe, and collapsed back into the bed, pulling the duvet up to my chin just as the brass handle on the outer door gave a slow, firm turn.
