Someone had tampered with the line.

The air supply hose shuddered violently. Oxygen cut out. Suffocation clamped down like a vice, squeezing my chest until my ribs screamed.

My head jerked up. Through the murky water, the operator's silhouette thrashed against the surface—hands working the line, sawing, cutting.

Elena Mason had bought him. She wanted me dead.

On the monitoring screen above, my heart rate held steady. No thrashing. No panic.

I reached behind my back. Severed the main hose. Twisted open the valve on my backup mini-cylinder.

*Child's play.*

The current caught me. I flipped, broke free of the undertow, and plunged into the silt of the seabed. Rust and rot surrounded me—scrap iron, tangled nets, the bones of forgotten ships.

A faint glint.

My fingers hooked like talons and snatched the ring.

Three minutes later, I broke the surface.

Water streamed down my face as I hauled myself onto the pier. Drenched. Shivering. Pale as a corpse.

But my eyes?

Sharp as blades.

Victor Sanchez recoiled. One involuntary step back.

I didn't slow down. Didn't stop. I strode straight toward Elena Mason.

Right in front of Victor, I held up the so-called heirloom ring. My fingers tightened.

*Crack.*

The gem-set band crushed into a distorted oval. I tossed it. It rolled across the concrete and clinked against Elena's custom leather shoe.

"Fake." I ripped the respirator from my face. "Just like your people—gold-plated trash."

Where I'd crushed it, the plating had flaked away. Underneath? Cheap, tarnished brass.

Elena's face drained white. Her gaze shot to Victor in naked panic.

Victor stared at the ring on the ground. Then at me—dripping wet, looking like a vengeful spirit risen from the deep.

He seemed to have forgotten how to breathe.

Slowly, he bent down. Picked up the deformed band. The mottled corrosion of brass stung his eyes, and his face turned ashen.

His head whipped toward Elena.

The accusation stuck in his throat.

Then—

The giant LED advertising screen on the pier flared to life.