His Mistress Tried to Kill Me

The champagne in my flute had gone warm, tasting of flat gold and wasted time. From the upper deck of the *Gilded Cage*, the Hamptons coastline was a smear of ink against a bruising purple sky, but I wasn’t watching the storm roll in. I was watching Barrett.

He stood near the stern, the white linen of his suit glowing in the ambient deck lights. His hand rested on the small of Fallon Grant’s back—presessive, proprietary. It was the same spot where his hand had rested on me five years ago, back when I was eighteen and shivering in the rain. Fallon threw her head back, her laughter chiming over the rising wind, and Barrett leaned in to whisper something that made her flush. Then, he looked up.

His eyes met mine across the crowded deck. There was no warmth, no flicker of the obsession that had kept me prisoner in his penthouse for half a decade. Just a cold, clinical assessment. I was inventory that had expired. He turned back to Fallon, his decision made.

My chest didn't tighten. The panic didn't come. Instead, a terrifying calm settled over me.

I set the glass down on the railing and turned away. In the master cabin, the silence was deafening. I stood before the vanity, my reflection a stranger in silk. Slowly, I reached behind my neck and unclasped the diamond choker Barrett had given me for our first anniversary. It slid from my skin like a cold snake, pooling on the mahogany surface. Beside it, I placed the note. I had spent weeks perfecting the handwriting—shaky, desperate, pathetic.

*I can’t live without you, Barrett. If I can’t be yours, I won’t be at all.*

The lie tasted sweet.

The yacht lurched as the first heavy wave slapped the hull. The storm had arrived. Perfect.

I moved to the lower stern, away from the canopy of the party. The wind was screaming now, tearing at the expensive fabric of my gown. I had sewn ten pounds of lead weights into the hem to ensure the dress would drag a body down—or at least, that’s what the police would think when they never found me.

With a trembling hand that wasn't acting, I pulled a concealed razor from my clutch. I slashed the inner lining of the hem, the lead weights clattering softly onto the deck, lost in the roar of the thunder. I kicked off my right heel—a red-soled Louboutin, left like a morbid glass slipper near the railing.

Lightning fractured the sky. The guests were scrambling for cover above, their screams of delight turning to panic. No one was looking at the water.

I climbed over the rail. The ocean churned below, a black, hungry mouth waiting to swallow Leona Fisher whole.

"Goodbye," I whispered, the wind stealing the word before it left my lips.

I let go.

The impact was a sledgehammer of ice. The Atlantic seized me, the cold paralyzing my lungs instantly. I fought the urge