My Fiancé Tore Off My Oxygen Mask Underwater

The next morning, the sun rose bright and harsh over Princeville.

The light cut through the floor-to-ceiling glass of the villa. Down in the bay, the water looked calm, but I could hear the waves crashing against the volcanic cliffs in the distance.

Everyone was at the long teak dining table for breakfast. Jaxton and Porter drank black coffee in silence. Lachlan was reviewing our dive route on his tablet. Then Arlet walked in, carrying a stack of glossy color printouts.

She sat down right next to Lachlan and spread the papers across the wood.

“Check this out,” Arlet said with a bright smile. She tapped a neat, blue line on the paper. “This is the depth profile from my cave run in Maui last month. Look at the curve right here.”

Jaxton leaned over his mug. “Clean ascent rate.”

“The Garmin did all the work,” Arlet said, beaming. She turned her wrist to show off the sleek black screen. “The real-time decompression algorithm adjusted every two seconds. It takes all the guesswork out of the dark. You don’t have to think. You just follow the display.”

Lachlan nodded, eyes fixed on her screen. He looked like an eager student watching a master.

Then Arlet turned her head and looked at me. Her smile was sweet and smooth.

Her eyes dropped to my left wrist.

“Your watch is so *classic*, Margot,” she said softly. “I love that you still wear it.”

Jaxton looked down at his plate. Porter took a sudden sip of water. Neither of them met my eyes.

“It works,” I said.

“It’s totally retro,” Arlet added, letting out a little laugh. “Like something from an old documentary. It has so much history.”

Lachlan didn't say a word. He didn't defend the watch. He just kept staring at Arlet’s neat digital charts.

A few minutes later, breakfast was over. The others stepped out onto the lanai to check the wind conditions. I stayed behind to clear the table. As I reached across the island counter for the glass coffee pot, Lachlan stepped up beside me.

His hand came out. His fingers brushed against the scratched stainless-steel band on my wrist.

He didn't hold it with care. He just pushed it slightly with his thumb.

“You should really upgrade that antique,” he said offhandedly.

My hand froze around the handle of the coffee pot.

*Antique.*

Two years ago, in a quiet cove in San Diego, Lachlan had taken that exact watch into his hands. It had belonged to Cristian Allen, the coach who died pushing me toward the sun. Lachlan had brought the steel case to his mouth and kissed the scratched metal.

*“I’ll spend my life keeping you safe,”* he had whispered into my neck back then. *“You’ll never have to fight for air again.”*

Now, he didn't even look at my face. He grabbed his sunglasses from the counter, slipped them on, and walked out the sliding glass door to join Arlet.

My heart thudded against my ribs. A cold knot formed in my stomach.

I couldn't just keep quiet. Not about this.

That afternoon, while the rest of the crew was checking their fins by the pool, I went to our bedroom. I unzipped my duffel bag and pulled out my field notebook.

It was an old, battered thing with frayed edges and water-stained leather. The early pages were filled with my competitive dives—times, depths, water temperatures, and Cristian’s sharp notes in the margins. But the last three pages were different.

They held notes from my pulmonologist.

The handwriting was clean and clinical. *Bilateral pulmonary fibrosis. Irreversible alveolar damage. Strict ceiling: 30 feet. Extreme danger of barotrauma and lung collapse beyond shallow recreational limits.*

I carried the open notebook out to the back terrace. Lachlan was alone at a wooden table, checking the o-rings on his regulator.

I set the open notebook directly in front of him.

“Lachlan,” I said. My voice was low, but I made sure it didn't shake. “You need to look at this.”

He looked up from his gear, his eyebrows pulling together in an annoyed line. “Margot, I’m prepping the lines.”

“Just read it,” I pleaded, pointing my finger at the doctor's stamp. “Thirty feet. That is not a suggestion. It’s my physical limit. The pressure at one hundred and twenty feet will crush the scarred tissue. I won’t be able to draw air.”

I waited for his anger. I waited for him to snap at me and call me difficult again.

Instead, Lachlan’s expression softened.

He set his screwdriver down on the table. He reached out and covered my cold hand with his warm palm. He gave me a gentle, reassuring smile.

“I've read your files, Margot,” he said. His voice was smooth and calm. “I know what they say.”

I blinked, caught off guard. “Then why are you pushing this?”

“Because that was four years ago,” he whispered. He squeezed my fingers, looking straight into my eyes with genuine affection. “You’ve been in rehab for four years. You walk five miles every day. You're stronger than you think.”

The warmth in his voice was like a trap. For a single, dangerous second, I felt a wave of relief wash over me. I wanted so badly to believe him. I wanted to believe he saw strength in me, not weakness.

“Lachlan, scarring doesn't heal—”

“Trust me,” he interrupted gently, patting my hand. “I’ll be right beside you the whole time. Nothing is going to happen to you. Okay?”

He stood up, kissed my forehead, and walked toward the pool.

I stood alone in the Hawaiian sun. The paper beneath my hands fluttered in the sea breeze.

I slowly pulled my hand back. I closed the notebook, walked back into the dark bedroom, and zipped it away inside my suitcase.

I told myself he wouldn't let anything happen to me.

It was the biggest lie I ever told.