His Mistress Tried to Kill Me

The champagne in my flute had gone warm, tasting of flat gold and wasted time. From the upper deck of the *Gilded Cage*, the Hamptons coastline was a smear of ink against a bruising purple sky, but I wasn’t watching the storm roll in. I was watching Barrett.

He stood near the stern, the white linen of his suit glowing in the ambient deck lights. His hand rested on the small of Fallon Grant’s back—presessive, proprietary. It was the same spot where his hand had rested on me five years ago, back when I was eighteen and shivering in the rain. Fallon threw her head back, her laughter chiming over the rising wind, and Barrett leaned in to whisper something that made her flush. Then, he looked up.

His eyes met mine across the crowded deck. There was no warmth, no flicker of the obsession that had kept me prisoner in his penthouse for half a decade. Just a cold, clinical assessment. I was inventory that had expired. He turned back to Fallon, his decision made.

My chest didn't tighten. The panic didn't come. Instead, a terrifying calm settled over me.

I set the glass down on the railing and turned away. In the master cabin, the silence was deafening. I stood before the vanity, my reflection a stranger in silk. Slowly, I reached behind my neck and unclasped the diamond choker Barrett had given me for our first anniversary. It slid from my skin like a cold snake, pooling on the mahogany surface. Beside it, I placed the note. I had spent weeks perfecting the handwriting—shaky, desperate, pathetic.

*I can’t live without you, Barrett. If I can’t be yours, I won’t be at all.*

The lie tasted sweet.

The yacht lurched as the first heavy wave slapped the hull. The storm had arrived. Perfect.

I moved to the lower stern, away from the canopy of the party. The wind was screaming now, tearing at the expensive fabric of my gown. I had sewn ten pounds of lead weights into the hem to ensure the dress would drag a body down—or at least, that’s what the police would think when they never found me.

With a trembling hand that wasn't acting, I pulled a concealed razor from my clutch. I slashed the inner lining of the hem, the lead weights clattering softly onto the deck, lost in the roar of the thunder. I kicked off my right heel—a red-soled Louboutin, left like a morbid glass slipper near the railing.

Lightning fractured the sky. The guests were scrambling for cover above, their screams of delight turning to panic. No one was looking at the water.

I climbed over the rail. The ocean churned below, a black, hungry mouth waiting to swallow Leona Fisher whole.

"Goodbye," I whispered, the wind stealing the word before it left my lips.

I let go.

The impact was a sledgehammer of ice. The Atlantic seized me, the cold paralyzing my lungs instantly. I fought the urge to gasp, kicking hard, driving myself down into the dark. My gown, stripped of its weights, billowed around me like a shroud, but I was strong. I had spent five years swimming laps in Barrett’s pool, training for this exact minute.

I surfaced fifty yards out, gasping, rain lashing my face. The yacht was a glowing toy in the distance. I swam toward the dark bobbing shape of the lobster buoy I’d marked three days ago. My fingers scrabbled against the slime-slicked plastic until I found the tethered waterproof bag. Inside was a wetsuit, a passport, and a new life.

Leona Fisher drowned that night.

***

Three years later.

"It’s too polite, Emily. It needs to bleed more."

I blinked, the gray Atlantic dissolving into the sun-drenched chaos of the Parsons Paris studio. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light hitting the clay sculpture in front of me. Vanessa Perry stood on the other side of the workbench, her hands caked in dried gray mud, a smudge of charcoal on her cheek.

"Bleed?" I asked, my voice softer now, the Appalachian twang buried under layers of French vowels and careful modulation. "It’s a mother holding a child, Vanessa. Not a war zone."

Vanessa tilted her head, her wild curls spilling over her shoulder. She pointed a sculpting tool at the figure’s hands. "Look at the grip. That’s not a hug. That’s desperation. She’s terrified the kid is going to disappear. Don't smooth it out. Let the fear show."

I looked at the clay hands I had shaped. She was right. The fingers were digging in, distorting the child’s flesh. Even in clay, I couldn't escape the dynamics of possession.

"You have a disturbing eye for trauma, Ness," I murmured, picking up a wire loop tool to roughen the texture.

"Takes one to know one," she countered, her tone breezy but her eyes sharp. "Coffee? I think I saw Marcus brewing a fresh pot in the faculty lounge. If we hurry, we can steal some before he notices."

I managed a small, genuine smile. "You’re a bad influence."

"I'm the best influence you have."

*CRACK.*

A sudden peal of thunder shook the studio windows, vibrating through the floorboards. The smile vanished from my face. My heart hammered against my ribs, a phantom echo of freezing water and the roar of the ocean.

My hand flew to my left wrist, fingers digging into the faint, jagged white scar hidden beneath my watch band—a souvenir from a 'romantic' night when Barrett had gripped me too hard, his ring cutting the skin.

"Emily?" Vanessa’s voice was sudden, close. She wasn't looking at the sculpture anymore. She was looking at my trembling hand.

I forced my fingers to uncurl, exhaling a breath I didn't know I was holding. "I'm fine," I lied, the same way Leona used to lie. "Just the thunder."

"Just the thunder," Vanessa repeated, not believing a word of it.

Leona was dead, buried at the bottom of the Atlantic. But as the rain began to streak the Parisian glass, I knew the ghost of Barrett Stone had followed me across the ocean.