The dark polished mahogany of the corridor felt less like a luxury finish and more like the side of a casket.

The door didn't open immediately. I could hear Flynn standing on the other side, his ear likely pressed against the dark mahogany paneling, listening for the sound of my breathing.

I closed my eyes, forcing my chest to rise and fall in the slow, heavy rhythm of deep, drug-induced sleep. My heart was hammering so hard against my ribs I was terrified he would hear it through the wood.

The brass latch clicked again. The door swung open smoothly on its oiled hinges.

A light draft of cooler air slipped into the room, bringing with it the faint scent of Flynn’s cologne—expensive cedarwood and citrus—mixed with the sharp metallic tang of the salt spray outside.

Slow footsteps crossed the plush carpet. They stopped right beside the bed.

I felt his presence leaning over me. The mattress shifted slightly as his hand rested near my hip. For three terrifying seconds, he didn't move. I could feel his gaze scanning my face, checking the position of my eyelids, watching the pulse in my throat.

Slowly, his warm fingers reached out and brushed a lock of hair off my forehead. His touch, once the thing that made me feel safest in the world, now felt like the cold belly of a snake sliding over my skin.

"Sleep tight, Cassandra," he whispered, his voice barely louder than the hum of the air conditioning. "Just a few more hours."

He drew the duvet higher over my shoulders, tucked it in with meticulous care, and turned around. The carpet absorbed his steps. The door closed, and the brass latch clicked securely back into place.

The moment the lock caught, I opened my eyes.

The room was bathed in the dim blue wash of the twilight filtering through the heavy glass portlights. My hands were trembling so violently I could barely push the covers back.

I have less than six hours.

Midnight was the target. That meant I had until the watch shifted at twelve to figure out how to survive on a vessel controlled entirely by my husband’s family, fifty miles off the coast of any mainland, surrounded by three hundred feet of dark water.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. The moment my feet hit the floor, a wave of vertigo hit me like a physical blow. My head throbbed, a dull, rhythmic ache right behind my eyes. Whatever he had been putting in those white pills, it was accumulating in my system. I couldn't rely on my physical strength. I was a hundred and fifteen pounds, sedated, and outnumbered.

I needed weapons. I needed proof. And above all, I needed to know if anyone on this boat wasn't bought.

I stood up, holding onto the heavy brass bedpost until the room stopped spinning.

My eyes fell on the nightstand. There, sitting beside a crystal carafe of water, was a small, dark blue velvet ring box. Beside it lay Flynn’s personal leather-bound planner, the gold initials F.S. stamped on the cover. He always kept it locked in his briefcase, but in his confidence, he had left it lying open beside his watch.

I staggered over to the table and reached for the planner.

The pages were filled with Flynn’s neat, architectural handwriting. I flipped back three months—to a time when he was still taking me to quiet dinners in Boston, telling me he wanted a simple life away from his family’s aggressive real estate business.

August 12: Meet with Vance's lead trustee. Confirm probate terms upon spouse's death. September 04: Acquire sodium thiopental / scopolamine compound via offshore pharmacy in Nassau. October 19: Marriage license finalized. Power of Attorney doc prepared for signature under standard trust updates.

My throat closed up. Every date, every romantic weekend, every tender text message had been calculated on a calendar like a series of corporate acquisitions. There had never been a moment of love. Not a single second. I was a line item on an asset transfer schedule.

I pulled out my phone from my handbag. No signal. The yacht’s satellite Wi-Fi router, located in the main salon, was likely turned off or locked down by Flynn. I snapped photographs of every page in the planner using my phone camera, my hands shaking so hard I had to rest the device on the table to keep the images clear.

Then I reached for the water carafe.

Beside it was a small glass dish containing two white pills. The dose he was planning to give me with dinner.

I pulled a sheet of tissue paper from the vanity box, carefully picked up both pills, and folded them into my pocket.

If I was going to survive the night, I couldn't let him know the drugs were failing. But if I refused dinner, he would know I suspected something.

A heavy groan echoed through the ship's frame as the yacht pitched into a larger wave. Outside the portlight, the sky had turned from blue to a bruised, violet black. The storm Flynn had mentioned was coming.