“Smile, Cass—tell them you’re happy for us.”
Cassandra Hale stood barefoot on the teak deck of the yacht, six months pregnant, salt wind snapping at her hair like a warning. The Atlantic was black glass around them, reflecting the party lights and the cruel sparkle of champagne flutes. Tonight was supposed to be a celebration cruise—another showpiece for her husband, Julian Sterling, a billionaire with a talent for turning everything into a stage.
Cassandra had stopped feeling like a wife months ago. She felt like a signature.
Six weeks earlier, she’d discovered she was pregnant and watched Julian’s reaction carefully. He didn’t look surprised. He looked… relieved, like the final piece of paperwork had arrived. Soon after, he started asking questions about her family trust, about “access procedures,” about whether the trustees would “recognize him as next of kin.” Cassandra’s father had left her a fortune in a protected account—money Julian could never touch unless Cassandra signed, or unless she was declared dead.
She hadn’t said that out loud. Not yet. She was still trying to convince herself her instincts were anxiety, not evidence.
Then Julian announced a toast at the yacht party, arm draped around her best friend, Blaire Easton—the woman Cassandra had trusted with secrets since college. Blaire wore a white dress that wasn’t accidental, and her lipstick was the same shade Cassandra used to wear before she stopped doing anything that drew attention.
Julian raised his glass. “To new beginnings,” he said, smiling at the investors, the influencers, the paid friends. “Because life is too short to pretend.”
Cassandra’s stomach tightened.
Julian turned and kissed Blaire—slow and public—like he was signing his name on Cassandra’s humiliation. Laughter erupted, nervous at first, then eager. Cameras lifted. Someone whispered, “Is this real?”
Cassandra heard her own heartbeat louder than the ocean.
“You’re not serious,” she said, voice cracking despite her effort.
Julian leaned in close, speaking through his smile. “Don’t make a scene. It’s bad optics.”
Blaire lifted her phone, recording. “Come on, Cass,” she cooed. “Don’t ruin the vibe.”
Cassandra backed toward the railing, palms sweating. “I’m pregnant,” she said, as if the fact might stop them.
Julian’s eyes flicked to her belly, then away, uninterested. “Exactly,” he murmured. “That’s why this needs to be clean.”
Clean.
The word hit like ice. Cassandra turned to step away, but Julian’s hand closed around her upper arm—not gentle, not guiding. His grip was firm, practiced, like he’d rehearsed the angle. Blaire kept filming, laughing under her breath as if this were a prank.
“Julian, stop,” Cassandra said.
He didn’t.
He shoved, and it wasn’t the kind of shove that looked like violence—it looked like a “slip,” a “stumble,” the perfect accident for anyone watching through a phone screen. Cassandra’s heel caught, her center of gravity betrayed her, and the railing disappeared beneath her hands.
Then she was falling.
Cold slammed into her lungs. The ocean swallowed her scream. She surfaced choking, waves striking her face, and saw the yacht above—lights blazing, silhouettes leaning over the edge.
Blaire’s phone was aimed straight at her.
Julian’s voice carried over the water, calm and almost bored. “Don’t flail,” he called. “You’ll exhaust yourself.”
Cassandra kicked, fighting the drag of her dress, reaching toward a ladder that wasn’t there. The yacht engine roared to life.
And as the yacht began to pull away—leaving her in open water—Cassandra understood the most terrifying part:
Julian didn’t just want her gone. He wanted her gone in a way that looked natural.
So who would believe her if she survived… and what had he already set in motion on land while she was drowning?
