My Heart, His Spare Part

Kianna Johnson POV:

The yacht, illuminated by a thousand fairy lights, shimmered on the water, a beacon of opulence. Tonight was the Powell family' s annual autumn gala, a tradition of old money and quiet power. As we disembarked from the speedboat, the gentle rocking of the waves was a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside me.

I walked onto the deck, my head held high, the chilled night air brushing against my bare shoulders. Tonight, I wasn' t just Kianna Johnson, the media heiress. I was a pawn in a bigger game, yes, but also a queen making her own moves. Every eye on the deck seemed to turn to me, drawn by the vibrant emerald green of my gown, a color I usually avoided but had chosen tonight for its undeniable statement.

Dariana, trailing slightly behind, her eyes wide, gasped softly. "Wow," she breathed, taking in the glittering crowd, the crystal chandeliers, the endless array of champagne flutes. This was a world she had only ever seen in magazines, a stark contrast to her fabricated life of quiet illness. For a moment, her usual pretense of frailty seemed to drop, replaced by genuine awe.

I ignored her, my gaze sweeping the room until it landed on my father, who was deep in conversation with an older gentleman whose stern, aristocratic features could only belong to Mr. Powell Sr. I headed straight for them, my stride purposeful.

Just as I reached the edge of the polished mahogany floor, a crash echoed through the opulent space. A waiter, laden with a tray of champagne glasses, stumbled. His uniform, now soaked, dripped onto the pristine white carpet. And directly into my path.

I felt a splash, cold and sticky, against my gown. Champagne. The liquid seeped into the delicate silk, a dark stain blossoming on the emerald fabric. My eyes narrowed, not at the clumsy waiter, but at Dariana, who stood a few feet away, her eyes wide with what looked like genuine shock. But a flicker, a fleeting spark deep within them, belied her innocence. It was intentional.

Glass shattered around me, the sharp sound drawing gasps from nearby guests. All eyes were on me, then on Dariana, then back to me.

"Oh, Kianna! I'm so, so sorry!" Dariana cried out, her voice trembling. "I didn't see him! I'm so clumsy." She wrung her hands, her lower lip quivering, tears welling in her eyes. The picture of distressed innocence, perfectly played. Several ladies immediately rushed to her side, murmuring words of comfort, shooting glares at me as if I were about to unleash a monster on the poor, fragile girl.

I stood there, the champagne chilling my skin, the shattered glass reflecting the cold fury in my eyes. She wanted to humiliate me. To make me seem temperamental, reckless. To remind Grant, and everyone else, that I was difficult, unworthy of his singular devotion.

Grant, of course, was already by Dariana's side, his body a protective barrier around her. "Are you hurt, Dariana?" he murmured, his voice laced with concern. He then turned to the trembling waiter, his eyes flashing with a possessive anger. "Watch where you're going! Can't you see she's delicate?"

Whispers erupted around us. "Is that Grant Langley? Her bodyguard?" "Such devotion!" "The poor girl, and Kianna's always so demanding." "Are they getting married? Kianna and her bodyguard?" The rumors, I realized, had started months ago, fueled by my own foolish displays of affection. Now, they gained a fresh, venomous life. They thought Grant was my fiancé. They thought this alliance was for us.

I took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing down the bitter laughter that threatened to bubble up. The anger, the humiliation, the sheer audacity of Dariana's performance-it all coalesced into a cold, hard resolve. I wouldn't let her win.

Without a word, without a glance at Grant or Dariana, I turned and walked toward the railing of the yacht, away from the glittering crowd, toward the dark, churning ocean. The sea breeze, sharp and bracing, did little to cool the fire in my veins. It just made my skin prickle, a physical manifestation of my rage.

A few moments later, a soft voice spoke beside me. "Still angry, Kianna?" Dariana. She stood beside me, her earlier panic completely gone. A sly, triumphant smile played on her lips. "Everyone's talking, you know. Saying you and Grant are finally going to make it official tonight. Imagine that."

I kept my gaze fixed on the endless expanse of the ocean. "Imagine that," I echoed, my voice flat.

"You really should learn to control that temper of yours," she continued, her voice dripping with false concern. "Grant doesn't like it when you're difficult. You know he's only doing this for me. He always chooses me." She paused, then added, her voice a low, taunting whisper, "But I can put in a good word for you. Tell him you're sorry. Maybe he'll still marry you." She giggled, a sound like tiny, tinkling bells, utterly devoid of warmth. "After all, he needs you. And I need what you possess."

I finally turned to her, my eyes piercing through her saccharine facade. "And why, Dariana," I asked, each word precise and deadly, "do you assume that any marriage alliance I enter into has anything to do with Grant?"

Her smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of confusion. Then she laughed, a short, sharp sound of disbelief. "Oh, Kianna. Don't be silly. Who else would it be for?"

Just then, Grant's voice cut through the air, sharp and urgent. "Dariana, what are you doing out here? It's cold, you'll get sick!" He was coming towards us, his expression a mixture of worry and exhaustion.

Dariana' s eyes lit up, triumph blazing in them. She turned back to me, her voice suddenly loud, filled with a theatrical glee. "See, Kianna? He always comes for me. And he always will." Her eyes narrowed, a cruel glint in them. "You'll never have him. You'll never have anything that's mine."

Before I could react, she moved. A sudden, swift shove. It wasn't hard, not physically. But it was enough. Enough to catch me off balance, enough to send me reeling backwards.

My feet left the solid ground of the yacht. The cold night air whipped around me. Then, the sickening sensation of falling.

A splash. A cold, dark embrace. The ocean swallowed me whole.