My Best Friend Planned My Death to Steal My Man

The water closed over my head, cold and merciless. My lungs burned as I struggled against the weight of my sodden clothes. Through the rippling surface above, I could see blurred figures watching my struggle—laughing, pointing, doing nothing.

"Help!" I gasped, my voice barely a bubble in the chlorinated water.

Then suddenly, the sky darkened. The crowd's murmurs shifted to gasps as the thunderous roar of helicopter blades drowned out the party music. A massive black helicopter descended onto the manicured lawn, its spotlight sweeping across the pool area.

The water churned around me as someone dove in. Strong arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me upward. I broke the surface with a desperate gasp, coughing and sputtering.

"I've got you," a deep voice murmured against my ear. "You're safe now."

I blinked water from my eyes to see Cillian Watson's face inches from mine. His usually immaculate suit was soaked through, his dark hair plastered to his forehead. But his eyes—those intense gray eyes—burned with a fury I'd never seen before.

"Cillian?" My voice came out as a croak.

He lifted me effortlessly from the pool, cradling me against his chest as he strode toward the crowd. The guests parted like the Red Sea, their expressions a mixture of shock and curiosity.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Darren pushed through the crowd, his face flushed with anger. "That's my girlfriend!"

Cillian didn't even flinch. He simply shrugged off his suit jacket and wrapped it around my shivering body before turning to face Darren.

"Your girlfriend?" His voice was ice. "Is that what you call the Watson heiress?"

The crowd fell silent.

"The what?" Darren's face drained of color.

Cillian's fist connected with Darren's jaw before anyone could react. Darren stumbled backward, blood trickling from his split lip.

"Scarlett Watson," Cillian announced to the stunned crowd, "is the sole heir to the Watson fortune. And you just assaulted her."

He turned back to me, his expression softening instantly. "Let's go home, Scarlett."

---

I woke to sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. For a moment, I thought I was dreaming—the room was too beautiful, too perfect. Cream-colored walls, antique furniture, and a canopy bed that looked like something from a fairy tale.

"Welcome home, daughter."

I turned to see an older man standing in the doorway—tall, distinguished, with kind eyes that matched my own.

"Dad?" The word felt foreign on my tongue.

He crossed the room in three strides, taking my hands in his. "I'm so sorry, Scarlett. I've waited so long for you to come home."

"Home?" I whispered.

"To the Watson estate. To your family." His voice broke slightly. "I knew someday you'd see through Darren's facade. I just didn't expect it to take three years of him using you."

"You knew?" My mind reeled. "You knew about Darren?"

"We've been watching over you," he admitted. "Not interfering, just... making sure you were safe."

A soft knock interrupted us. Cillian entered with a tray of tea and toast, his hair still damp from a shower.

"I thought you might be hungry," he said, setting the tray on my lap.

"Thank you," I murmured, suddenly aware of how gently he treated me compared to his ruthless display at the party.

---

A week later, I barely recognized myself in the mirror. Gone was the meek, devoted girlfriend who had sacrificed everything for Darren. In her place stood a woman with clear eyes and straight shoulders.

"The Gardner portfolio is extensive," Cillian said, spreading documents across the library table. "But they have vulnerabilities—especially after their stock plummeted following news of the 'Watson heiress scandal.'"

I traced my finger along the edge of a financial statement. "They humiliated me. Made me feel worthless."

"They'll pay for that," Cillian promised, his voice low.

"Not with violence," I decided. "With this."

I tapped the Gardner financial reports. "We'll destroy them financially. Systematically. Legally."

His smile was slow and approving.

---

The "Return of the Pearl" gala transformed the Watson mansion into a glittering wonderland. I stood at the top of the grand staircase, listening to the murmur of hundreds of elite guests below.

"Ready?" Cillian asked, offering his arm.

I smoothed the front of my red gown—a dress that screamed power rather than asked for it. "Absolutely."

We descended together, and the room fell silent. Flashbulbs exploded as photographers captured the moment.

"Miss Watson!" voices called. "Over here!"

Across the room, I spotted them—Darren and his mother, Victoria Gardner. They hadn't been invited. Their expressions were a mixture of desperation and calculation as they watched the crowd fawn over me.

Darren pushed through toward us, a bouquet of roses in hand. "Scarlett," he called, his voice carrying across the now-hushed room. "I've been trying to reach you. There's been a terrible misunderstanding."

I met his gaze coolly as he approached, flowers extended like a peace offering.

"I miss you," he said, lowering his voice. "We need to talk."

I walked past him without a word, my hand firmly on Cillian's arm.

"Would you care to dance, Mr. Watson?" I asked loudly enough for everyone to hear.

Cillian's smile was triumphant as he led me to the dance floor. Behind us, Darren stood frozen, roses drooping in his hand while cameras captured his humiliation.

As Cillian's arms encircled me, I caught sight of Victoria Gardner's face—pale with the realization that the Watsons had just declared war.