Ava Miller POV:

I woke up in the back of a moving car.

My teeth were chattering so hard I thought they would crack under the pressure.

Donovan was on the phone in the front seat, his voice low and tight.

He sounded frantic.

"She was mumbling something," he said to the person on the other end. "About leaving. About a contract."

He hung up abruptly when he saw me moving in the rearview mirror.

Without stopping the car, he climbed into the back seat.

He wrapped a heavy blanket around me, tucking it in tight.

His hands were trembling.

"What did you mean?" he asked.

His eyes were searching mine, desperate for reassurance.

"You said 'It's over.' You said 'I'm free.' What did you mean?"

I looked at him, my expression blank.

He looked guilty. Guilt was written in every line of his face.

Good.

"I was dreaming," I whispered, my voice raspy. "I was delirious."

He let out a shaky breath.

He pulled me against his chest, burying his face in my neck.

"I'm sorry," he said into my hair. "I had to. She was hysterical."

I didn't hug him back.

I sat there frozen, unyielding, like a statue.

*

The next day, Chloe sent an invitation.

A charity party on the Blackwood Yacht.

Ostensibly, it was to celebrate her recovery.

And to celebrate the "unity" of the family.

It was a trap.

I knew it was a trap. Every instinct screamed at me not to go.

But I put on a white dress anyway. I would not hide.

I walked onto the boat, head held high.

Music was playing. Champagne was flowing.

Chloe was holding court in the center of the deck, surrounded by admirers.

She saw me and smiled.

It was the smile of a predator spotting wounded prey.

She walked over, linking her arm through Donovan's possessively.

"Look who decided to show up," she said loudly, drawing the room's attention. "The mermaid."

People laughed.

Donovan looked uncomfortable, shifting his weight.

"Stop it, Chloe," he muttered.

She ignored him completely.

She cornered me by the railing as the crowd dispersed.

We were alone for a moment.

"You're a good actress," she hissed, her voice dripping with venom. "Giving me blood? Pretending to be weak? I know you're plotting something."

"I'm leaving," I said quietly. "You can have him."

She laughed, a cold, sharp sound.

"I don't just want him," she said. "I want you destroyed."

Suddenly, the boat lurched violently.

A massive wave from a passing tanker hit the side of the yacht.

Chloe stumbled.

She grabbed my dress to steady herself, her fingers digging into the fabric.

We both went over the rail.

We hit the water together with a bone-jarring splash.

This time, there were no bodyguards on the pier.

We were in the deep ocean.

The current was strong, pulling at my limbs.

My dress was heavy, soaking up water instantly. It dragged me down.

Chloe was screaming, thrashing in the water panic taking over.

"Help! Donovan!"

I saw the spotlight from the boat sweep over the dark water.

A rescue boat was lowered rapidly.

Donovan was at the bow, screaming.

I treaded water, trying to keep my head up against the weight of the gown.

The rescue boat got close.

It was between us.

They could reach me. Or they could reach her.

"Grab my wife!" a guard shouted, reaching toward me.

"No!" Donovan's voice cut through the wind. It was a primal roar.

"Get Chloe! Get Chloe first!"

The crew hesitated, confused.

"DO IT!" he screamed.

The boat turned away from me.

They reached for Chloe.

I stopped kicking.

A strange calm settled over me.

He chose.

Again.

He would always choose her.

I let the water take me.

I sank beneath the surface.

It was quiet down here.

Then, pain exploded in my leg.

Something struck me hard.

Debris? A shark? The propeller?

I didn't know.

The water turned red around me.

My vision went black.

The last thing I heard was the muffled sound of Donovan screaming my name.

But by then, it was already too late.

Ava Miller POV

The sharp sting of antiseptic burned my nose before I even opened my eyes.

I was alive.

Disappointment settled in my chest like a heavy, suffocating stone.

I blinked against the harsh fluorescent lights. I was in a hospital room, but not a private suite. It was a general ward. The privacy curtain was half-torn, fluttering weakly from the air conditioning.

Whispers floated from the hallway, cruel and indistinct.

*"He saved the mistress. Left the wife to drown. Cold bastard."*

The door banged open.

Donovan Blackwood filled the frame.

He didn't look relieved. He looked like a storm barely contained in a suit.

He marched to the side of the bed. He didn't ask how I was. He didn't check the monitors.

"Where is she?" he demanded.

My throat was raw from the saltwater, shredded by the sea. I tried to speak, but only a croak came out.

"Don't play dumb, Isabella," he snarled. "You pulled her in. I saw you grab her dress."

I stared at him.

The water had washed away my fear. It left nothing but a hollow, echoing silence.

"I didn't touch her," I whispered.

"Liar!"

He grabbed a glass vase of wilted flowers from the bedside table and hurled it at the wall.

Glass shattered, exploding outward. Water splashed onto the linoleum mixed with the petals of dying roses.

The nurses in the hallway gasped, but no one came in. No one interfered with the Don.

"Chloe is missing," he said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "The current took her. The divers can't find her."

He leaned over me. His blue eyes were black with hate.

"If she is dead, you will wish you had drowned."

He turned to the two guards stationed at the door.

"No doctors. No food. No painkillers. She sits in this bed and thinks about what she did until I say otherwise."

He walked out.

The door clicked shut.

I closed my eyes.

Hunger was an old friend. Pain was a familiar neighbor.

I lay there for two days.

I counted the tiles on the ceiling. One hundred and forty-four.

On the third morning, the door opened.

Donovan looked haggard. Stubble covered his jaw, dark and unkempt. His eyes were bloodshot maps of sleeplessness.

"Get up," he said.

He threw a bag of clothes onto the bed.

"We are leaving."

I dressed with shaking hands. My leg throbbed where the debris had hit me underwater, a dull, rhythmic agony.

I followed him to the car.

We didn't go to the estate.

We drove to the industrial district. To the docks controlled by the Ivanov Bratva.

The car stopped in front of a rusted warehouse.

A man was waiting. Dmitri. He was known as The Abuser. He had a reputation for breaking women like they were dry twigs.

Donovan got out. I followed.

Dmitri smiled. His teeth were capped in gold.

"He has her?" Donovan asked.

Dmitri nodded. "She is safe. For now. But the price has changed."

Donovan didn't hesitate.

"Take her," he said, jerking his head toward me.

I froze.

He was trading me.

His wife for his mistress.

"Wait," I said.

Donovan looked at me. There was no recognition in his eyes. Just a transaction.

"You want her back?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Then sign the papers," I said.

Donovan blinked.

"What?"

"The contract," I said. My voice was steady, though my knees were knocking together. "Terminate the marriage. Transfer the trust fund. Do it now, and I will go with him."

He looked at me like I was insane.

"You're bargaining?"

"I'm securing my severance," I said.

He pulled out his phone. He made a call to his lawyer.

"Done," he said after a minute. "The money is in escrow. It releases when you sign."

He shoved me toward Dmitri.

Dmitri's hand clamped onto my shoulder. It felt like a meat hook.

Donovan walked toward the other side of the warehouse, where a sobbing Chloe was being led out.

He didn't look back.

Dmitri dragged me into the darkness.

The next six hours were a blur of agony.

They didn't want information. They just wanted to send a message to the Blackwoods that their property could be damaged.

They tied me to a chair.

Dmitri used a knife. Not to kill. Just to carve.

He asked me about shipping routes I didn't know.

When I didn't answer, he cut deeper.

I didn't scream.

Isabella would have screamed.

I just counted.

*Fifty million. Fifty million. Fifty million.*

At dawn, I heard them talking in the next room.

*"Kill her in the morning. Wrap her in a carpet. Send her back in pieces."*

I looked at the window.

It was high up. Broken.

My hands were tied with zip ties.

There was a piece of rusted rebar sticking out of the concrete wall behind me.

I scooted the chair backward.

I rubbed the plastic tie against the jagged metal.

Friction. Heat. Snap.

My skin tore, but the plastic gave way.

I climbed.

I squeezed through the window. Glass sliced my arm, adding to the map of pain on my body.

I fell onto the asphalt outside.

I ran.

I stole a taxi at a red light, terrifying the driver with my blood-soaked dress.

"Take me to the Blackwood Estate," I ordered.

I walked through the front door as the sun was rising.

Donovan and Chloe were in the living room.

She was wrapped in a cashmere blanket, sipping tea. Not a scratch on her.

Donovan was holding her hand.

I stood in the archway.

Blood dripped from my fingertips onto the white marble floor.

Donovan looked up.

His face went pale.

"Isabella?" he whispered.

I didn't look at him.

I looked at the pen on the coffee table.

"I'm here to sign," I said.