Chapter 2 - The Cotton Mouth
The nausea did not leave when the sun went down.
Instead, it morphed into something heavier.
I sat on the edge of our king-sized bed, staring at my trembling hands.
The Solstice cut through the water smoothly, yet the room felt like it was tilting.
The door clicked open.
Flynn walked in, already dressed in his silk pajamas, holding a small glass of water and two white pills.
"Still feeling sick, beautiful?" he asked.
His voice was like warm honey.
"A little," I lied.
It wasn't just a little. My tongue felt like cotton, and my thoughts were swimming through thick mud.
"The ship doctor said these will help," Flynn said.
He sat beside me, the mattress dipping under his weight.
"I don't usually take pills," I whispered.
"I know, Claire. But I hate seeing you suffer."
He held them out on his palm.
I looked at the small, unmarked white tablets.
"What exactly are they?" I asked.
Flynn smiled, a gentle, reassuring curve of his lips.
"Just an anti-emetic. Dramamine, but a bit stronger. The sea is rough tonight."
I looked toward the porthole.
The water was glass-flat. The sky was clear.
"It doesn't feel rough," I pointed out.
"You're in the center of the yacht, baby. You can't feel the pitch here."
He pressed the pills into my hand.
"Take them. For me. So we can enjoy our honeymoon."
I swallowed them.
He handed me the water, and I drank it down, watching his eyes.
They were focused. Unblinking.
"Good girl," he murmured, taking the glass and setting it on the nightstand.
He kissed my forehead and turned off the bedside lamp.
Within twenty minutes, the heaviness in my limbs turned into paralysis.
I tried to lift my arm, but it felt like it was made of lead.
"Flynn?" I mumbled into the dark.
"Go to sleep, Claire," his voice came from the shadows.
It didn't sound like warm honey anymore.
It sounded clinical.
The next morning, the fog in my head was even thicker.
I managed to drag myself to the en-suite bathroom, gripping the marble vanity to stay upright.
My reflection terrified me.
Pale skin. Dark circles. Bloodshot eyes.
I looked like a ghost haunting my own honeymoon.
A knock sounded at the suite door.
"Mrs. Mercer? Your breakfast."
It was Natalie.
"Come in," I called out, my voice raspy.
She walked in carrying a silver tray, placing it perfectly on the small glass table near the balcony.
"Mr. Mercer is above deck with his parents," she said.
She didn't look at me. She just arranged the silverware.
"Did he say when he'd be back?" I asked.
"He said to make sure you ate your soup, ma'am."
"Soup? For breakfast?"
Natalie finally looked up.
Her eyes locked onto mine, and for a split second, I saw something sharp and dangerous flash in them.
"The chef prepared a special broth," she said flatly. "For your stomach."
"I see."
"Eat it while it's hot, Mrs. Mercer."
She turned and left, the door clicking shut with terrifying finality.
I walked over to the tray.
Next to a silver bowl of steaming broth lay a small white napkin.
And next to the napkin, a faint smear of white powder dusted the black lacquer of the tray.
My breath hitched.
I dipped my pinky finger into the powder and rubbed it against my thumb.
It was chalky. Bitter.
Just like the pills Flynn had given me.
I picked up the heavy silver bowl and walked straight into the bathroom.
I poured the entire serving of broth down the sink, running the hot water to wash away the evidence.
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I didn't know what was happening, but I knew one thing for certain.
My husband was drugging me.
