Chapter 2 - The Plunge
“She can’t leave, Grant!” Vanessa shrieked, the reality of her collapsing future finally setting in. “If she goes to the authorities, we lose everything! The houses, the accounts, the yacht—they’ll freeze it all! I am not going to prison for you!”
“Nobody is going to prison!” Grant roared, grabbing my arm with a bruising grip. “Emma, you are going to sit down, pick up that pen, and sign the damn papers!”
“Let go of me!” I shouted, ripping my arm out of his grasp and backing away toward the aft railing.
The yacht rocked violently over a Pacific swell.
Vanessa’s eyes darted frantically from the unsigned papers to my face. She saw her yachts, her designer clothes, and her stolen billionaire lifestyle evaporating into thin air. Survival instinct and unadulterated greed took over.
“We can’t let her ruin us!” Vanessa screamed.
Before Grant could stop her—or maybe, before he even wanted to—Vanessa lunged at me.
She didn't just grab for my purse or the folder. She drove her palms squarely into my chest. At seven months pregnant, my center of gravity was already compromised. The force of her shove sent me stumbling backward. My calves hit the low, polished teak railing of the yacht.
I flailed, my hands grasping wildly for anything to hold onto.
“Grant!” I screamed, my eyes locking onto my husband’s face.
He was standing less than three feet away. He could have reached out. He could have grabbed my wrist, my jacket, my hair.
Instead, he stepped backward.
He stood perfectly still, his blue eyes cold and utterly devoid of mercy, and he watched me fall.
The freezing, brutal waters of the Pacific Ocean swallowed me whole. The shock of the cold knocked the breath from my lungs in an agonizing rush. I plunged beneath the surface, the darkness of the sea closing over my head. My heavy clothing dragged me down, and panic, raw and primal, exploded in my chest.
I kicked my legs, fighting with every ounce of strength I had, wrapping my arms tightly around my pregnant belly. My baby. I have to save my baby.
I broke the surface, gasping for air, choking on saltwater.
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Above me, the Emma Rose idled in the waves. I looked up, expecting to see a life preserver thrown over the side. Instead, I saw Grant standing at the railing, looking down at me as the current began to pull me away. He didn’t shout. He didn’t call for help. He just watched the ocean swallow his problems.
Then, the yacht’s engines roared to life, and he drove away.
