Chapter 3 - The Staged FallAt 11:45 p.m., the sky outside our stateroom window turned a bruised, violent shade of violet as the predicted squall rolled across the horizon, churning the dark Atlantic waters into white-capped peaks. The yacht groaned against the heavy swells, rocking violently. A soft knock echoed at the cabin door.
I smeared a light dusting of gray eyeshadow beneath my eyes to fake a sickly, drugged pallor, let my limbs go limp, and opened the door half-slumped against the frame. "Flynn... I feel so dizzy..." I murmured, letting my voice trail off weakly. His eyes lit up with predatory triumph disguised as concern. He wrapped a strong, possessive arm around my waist, guiding me up the narrow stairwell toward the secluded aft deck where the wind howled and the rain lashed down like needles. No crew members were in sight; the storm had driven everyone indoors, exactly as they planned.
As we reached the slippery teakwood railing of the aft deck, the yacht gave a massive heave, pitching sideways into a towering wave. Flynn positioned himself directly behind me, his hands resting heavily on my shoulders, guiding me closer to the edge where the dark, churning propeller wash churned white foam. "Just look at the horizon, sweetheart," he whispered into my ear, his breath hot and reeking of champagne. "Let go." He shoved forward with a sudden, vicious thrust meant to send me flying into the black abyss. But I had anticipated the exact angle of his push; instead of tumbling blindly, I twisted my body with athletic precision, ducked beneath his lunging weight, and grabbed his tailored suit jacket, using his own momentum and the yacht's violent roll to redirect his trajectory straight over the railing.
