Chapter 5 - The Black Phone That Held My Autopsy
The screen glowed in the dim light of the closet, casting a pale blue shadow over my trembling fingers.
There was no passcode.
Flynn was arrogant enough to believe I would never look, or perhaps he thought I was already too heavily drugged to care.
I opened the messaging app, my breath shallow and jagged in my chest.
Hundreds of texts loaded instantly, all neatly organized under a single contact name saved as "S. ❤️".
I tapped the most recent conversation.
She still trusts you? the message from S read.
Completely, Flynn had replied just an hour ago.
I stared at the word. Completely.
It was true. I had given him my fortune, my family’s security, and my absolute blind devotion.
I scrolled up, the screen blurring slightly as tears of pure, blinding rage pricked the corners of my eyes.
Once Claire is gone, don’t celebrate too early, S had written yesterday. Her parents still need handling.
Brake lines are easy, Flynn had typed back. After that, we get the life we were promised.
I clamped a hand over my mouth to stifle a sob.
This wasn't a sudden crime of passion or a desperate grab for cash.
This was a meticulously engineered slaughter.
I kept scrolling back, weeks, then months, reading their mundane complaints about my wedding planning, my dress, my father’s speeches.
Then, my thumb froze.
A photograph loaded in the thread, dated exactly one week before I met Flynn.
Flynn stood in a crisp black tuxedo, smiling genuinely—a smile he had never once given me.
Beside him stood a blonde woman in a delicate, stunning white lace wedding dress.
Aidan and Fiona stood behind them, their faces glowing with authentic, unfeigned pride.
Flynn’s message below the photo read: Happy seventh anniversary, Mrs. Vale. Soon we won’t have to hide.
Seven years.
My husband had been married to another woman for seven years.
He was already someone else's forever before he even learned my name.
I zoomed in on the bride’s face, my blood turning to ice water in my veins.
The blonde hair. The sharp jawline. The cold, unreadable eyes.
It was the stewardess who had served my water on the deck.
Natalie.
"Claire?"
The handle to the suite door clicked and turned.
Panic seized my throat like a physical hand.
I shoved the black phone deep into the toe of Flynn's leather dress shoe and tossed a sweater over the duffel bag.
I scrambled out of the closet and dove onto the bed, pulling the thick duvet up to my chin just as the bedroom door swung open.
Flynn stepped into the room, his eyes scanning the space before landing on me.
"You're awake," he said softly, his tone neutral.
"I was cold," I whispered, forcing my eyelids to droop perfectly halfway.
He walked over, his heavy footsteps sinking into the plush carpet.
"The storm is picking up outside," he said, sitting on the edge of the mattress.
"Is it?" I murmured, keeping my voice lethargic and thick.
"Yes. The captain says it will hit just after midnight."
He reached out and brushed a strand of hair away from my sweaty forehead.
"Flynn?" I asked, looking up into the eyes of the man planning my autopsy.
"Yes, baby?"
"Did you ever love anyone before me?"
His hand stopped moving.
For a fraction of a second, the muscles in his jaw tightened, the only sign that my question had landed a hit.
"No," he lied smoothly, his smile returning. "Never."
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"I'm glad," I breathed out, closing my eyes.
"Rest, Claire," he whispered, leaning down to kiss my cheek. "Tonight is going to be a big night."
