Chapter 2 - The Trap on the Aft Deck
The wind hit us like a wall of ice as Flynn guided me out onto the private aft deck of the superyacht. The Caribbean night was a yawning abyss of black water and angry whitecaps, churned up by the approaching squall he had gloated about earlier. Far below, the massive twin propellers thrummed a rhythmic, deafening heartbeat against the sea.
There were no cameras here—Flynn had made sure of that when he disabled the localized feed earlier that evening, thinking he was clever. No witnesses. Just the open ocean, a traitorous husband, and an heiress ready to reclaim her empire.
"Look at the horizon, Evelyn," Flynn whispered, his grip tightening subtly around my shoulders as he guided me closer and closer to the low, open railing. The safety gate had been unlatched. "Just lean over. Breathe it in. Let the sea breeze wash it all away."
I let out a soft, pathetic whimper, playing the helpless victim to absolute perfection. "Flynn... it's so cold. I feel so dizzy... I think I'm going to fall..."
"Don't worry, sweet girl," he muttered, his voice dropping all pretense of affection, turning harsh and metallic. "I've got you. I've always had you."
With a sudden, brutal shove, he drove his palms hard into my back.
He expected a splash. He expected me to plummet into the churning black wake, swallowed by the ocean before anyone could blink.
Instead, his hands hit empty air as I dropped smoothly into a low combat roll—a defense technique my billionaire father had insisted I learn from elite private security experts since I was a teenager.
Flynn’s momentum carried him violently forward. His chest slammed hard against the unyielding metal railing, his balance instantly compromised by his own overconfidence and shock.
Before he could scream, before he could spin around, I shot up from the deck, grabbed his tailored blazer by the shoulders, and used his own forward thrust against him. With a savage roar of adrenaline, I heaved upward and kicked backward into the back of his knees.
Clang!
Flynn’s legs buckled. His eyes bulged wide with sheer, unadulterated terror as his body tipped over the low rail. He clawed frantically at the empty air, his expensive cufflinks catching the pale moonlight for one split second before his fingers slipped off the wet steel.
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"Evelyn! No! Help me!" he shrieked, his voice piercing the roar of the wind as he plunged downward into the dark, churning vortex of the yacht's wake.
I stood at the railing, breathing heavily, watching the white foam swallow the man who had traded my life for three hundred million dollars.
