Chapter 8 - The Dead Bride’s Final Hour
The digital clock on the nightstand clicked to 11:00 PM.
Every minute that passed felt like a physical weight pressing down on my chest.
Outside, the Caribbean sea had turned into a monster, hurling massive waves against the reinforced hull of the Solstice.
Thunder rattled the crystal glasses sitting on the wet bar across the suite.
I lay perfectly still under the duvet, my eyes closed, practicing the slow, rhythmic breathing of a heavily sedated woman.
My mind, however, was racing at a thousand miles an hour.
I mentally cataloged every object in the room that could be used as a weapon.
A heavy brass lamp. The sharp heel of my wedding shoes. The shattered glass of a perfume bottle.
But violence was a rich man's game, and Flynn was physically stronger than me.
If I fought him here, in the isolated soundproof walls of the master suite, I would lose.
I had to play his game until the tactical team arrived.
I slipped my hand into the pocket of my silk robe, my fingers brushing against the two white pills I had spat out hours ago.
I left them there. A tiny insurance policy of proof.
At exactly 11:17 PM, the heavy wooden door clicked open.
I didn't flinch. I kept my breathing slow, shallow, and even.
Footsteps approached the bed, accompanied by the faint smell of expensive cologne and ozone from the storm outside.
"Claire?" Flynn whispered.
I didn't answer.
He sat on the edge of the mattress, the bed dipping under his weight.
He leaned over me, his face so close I could feel his breath on my cheek.
"Time to wake up, sleeping beauty," he murmured.
He shook my shoulder gently, then a little harder.
I let out a soft, groggy moan, letting my head roll to the side.
I fluttered my eyes open, keeping them deliberately unfocused.
"Flynn?" I slurred, dragging out the syllables.
"I'm right here, baby," he smiled.
It was the smile I had married. Warm, protective, and utterly devastating.
Knowing what hid behind it made my stomach churn with violent revulsion.
"My head hurts," I mumbled. "Where are we going?"
"You're just feeling a little seasick from the storm," he said smoothly.
He pulled the duvet back, exposing me to the chilled air of the suite.
"Fresh air will help clear your head."
"It's raining," I protested weakly, letting my body go limp as he pulled me into a sitting position.
"We'll stay under the awning," he promised, kissing my temple. "Just for a few minutes. I want to show you the lightning over the water."
Of course he did.
A tragic slip on a wet deck. A sudden rogue wave.
It was the perfect alibi for a grieving billionaire husband.
He pulled me to my feet, wrapping a heavy arm around my waist to support my dead weight.
I leaned heavily against him, forcing him to carry the brunt of my body mass.
Every step toward the door took agonizing effort to fake.
We moved out of the suite and into the long, opulent corridor of the main deck.
The yacht was eerily deserted.
No crew members vacuuming the carpets. No stewards offering late-night cocktails.
Flynn had cleared the board.
As we approached the bridge, the glass doors slid open, and a figure stepped out into the corridor.
Captain Reyes.
He was a tall, broad-shouldered veteran of the Navy who had worked for my father for sixteen years.
He looked at Flynn, his face an unreadable mask of authority.
"Rough seas tonight, Mr. Mercer," Reyes said, his deep voice carrying over the sound of the storm. "Passengers should remain in their cabins."
"My wife is feeling violently ill, Captain," Flynn lied without missing a beat.
"I'm just taking her to the aft deck for some air. We won't be long."
Captain Reyes shifted his gaze to me.
His eyes locked onto mine.
I gave him the tiniest, most imperceptible nod.
Reyes’s hand moved slowly to his wrist, his index finger tapping the face of his dive watch.
Once. Twice.
Help is here.
"Understood, sir," Reyes said smoothly, stepping aside. "Keep a firm grip on her. The deck is slippery."
"I never let her go," Flynn smiled.
We walked past the captain, the cold air of the storm hitting us as the heavy exterior doors slid open.
My heart pounded so hard I was sure Flynn could feel it against his ribs.
May you like
The ninety minutes were up.
It was time to meet my killers.
