After My Husband Tried to Kill Me at Sea

The next afternoon, Paulina handed me a stack of glossy investor portfolios.

“Bryce needs these at the harborside meet-and-greet,” she said, her smile sugary and fake. “Hand them out to the VIPs at the pier tent. Make sure everyone gets one.”

I knew it was a trap. But with my father’s life hanging by a thread, I had no choice.

The harbor was freezing. A stiff wind blew off the dark water of Puget Sound, biting through my thin jacket. Inside the heated tent, Seattle’s elite drank wine and laughed. Bryce stood near the entrance, chatting with a city councilman. He barely glanced at me.

I took the files and walked toward the pier.

Then I heard a voice behind me. Harsh. Shaky with fury.

“That’s her.”

I turned. An older man in a faded windbreaker stared at me. His eyes were bloodshot. Beside him stood a woman clutching an empty handbag against her chest. Behind them, a dozen more people pressed forward.

“Emmie Crawford,” the woman cried. Her voice cracked. “You stole my pension! You took my house!”

“Wait,” I said, holding up my hands. “Please.”

More people turned. Whispers rippled through the crowd, turning into an ugly roar.

“Thief!”

“Scammer!”

“Where’s our money, you bitch?”

They weren’t elite guests. They were ordinary people who had lost everything in the hedge fund collapse six years ago. Paulina had tipped them off. She had invited them here to tear me apart.

I looked toward the tent. Paulina stood near the bar, sipping wine, a cold smirk touching her lips.

The circle closed in fast. Hands grabbed at my coat. Someone knocked the folders from my arms, sending white paper scattering across the wet boards. I backed away, step by step, until the back of my knees hit the low wooden railing.

“You ruined us!” a man screamed, lunging forward.

Two heavy hands shoved my chest.

My feet slid on the slick wood. I tipped backward into empty air.

The shock hit me before the sound did. Frigid, black water swallowed me whole.

It was like crashing into concrete. Puget Sound was ice. The cold punched every ounce of air from my lungs. Bubbles rushed past my face as I sank into the green gloom.

My clothes grew heavy, dragging me down. My chest burned for oxygen.

I looked up toward the shimmering surface.

Through the distortion of the water, I saw the pier. I saw the edge.

Bryce was standing right there.

He held a crystal champagne flute in his hand. He wasn't yelling. He wasn't taking off his coat to jump. He didn't even drop his glass. He just stood at the edge, staring down through the ripples with flat, dead eyes.

He was watching me drown.

In that freezing silence, the truth hit me with brutal clarity. He never loved me. He never felt remorse. I wasn't his wife. I was just something he owned, and when a toy became inconvenient, you let it sink.

My vision began to tunnel into black. My limbs grew numb. For one terrible second, I wanted to stop fighting. I wanted the cold to take the pain away.

Then, a sudden splash tore through the surface.

A large, calloused hand clamped around my wrist like a vice.

The grip was iron-hard. It yanked me upward, slicing through the crushing water.

My head broke the surface. I gasped, coughing and choking on salt water.

Arms hooked under my shoulders, hauling me up onto the low stern platform of a sleek, dark yacht. I fell onto the wet deck, wheezing and shuddering violently.

A heavy wool blanket dropped over my shoulders.

“Breathe,” a low, steady voice commanded.

I forced my head up. A man knelt beside me. He had dark hair, a sharp jawline, and eyes as cold and dark as the Sound itself. He didn't ask if I was okay. He didn't offer fake sympathy.

He simply stood up and opened the cabin door. “Inside. Before you catch pneumonia.”

I stumbled into the heated cabin. He tossed me a thick gray sweatshirt and sweatpants, then pointed to a small bathroom. I locked the door with trembling hands, stripped out of the freezing clothes, and pulled on the dry fleece.

When I stepped out, he was sitting at a mahogany table. Two glasses of amber whiskey sat between two chairs.

He slid one glass toward me.

I sat down, clutching the glass with both hands to stop the shaking. “Who are you?”

“Orion Reyes,” he said smoothly.

The name hit my memory like a spark. “Reyes Asset Management.”

“My father’s firm,” Orion said. His voice was flat, but his eyes carried an old, deep rage. “Until Bryce Lawson and Paulina Dixon shorted our stock, leaked falsified audit reports, and bled us dry. My father died of a heart attack six months later.”

I stared at him. “Why save me?”

“Because you’re the one person who knows how they operate,” Orion said. He leaned back, resting his elbows on the table. “I’ve been watching you for weeks, Emmie. Your delivery routes. The trap they built around you. They think you're dead at the bottom of the bay right now.”

He took a slow sip of his whiskey.

“You were framed,” he said simply.

It was the first time in six years anyone had said those words to my face. A knot in my throat tightened until it hurt.

“I have the resources,” Orion continued, his voice dropping low and quiet. “You have the insider knowledge. We take them down together. Brick by brick.”

I looked out the yacht’s rain-streaked window. Across the dark water, the lights of Seattle burned like distant gold. Bryce was out there, thinking he had won.

My thumb tapped against my index finger under the table. One, two, three, four.

I took a burning swallow of the whiskey and met Orion’s gaze.

“Tell me your plan,” I said.