Betrayed Genius: The Billionaire's Possessive Claim

The cold water hit Anabelle like a concrete wall.

One second, she was standing on the edge of the Bowers estate pool, listening to Britany's manufactured whining. The next, Britany's manicured fingers clamped around her wrist like a vice. Britany stepped backward into the empty air, screaming, and dragged Anabelle down into the deep end with her.

Chlorine burned up Anabelle's nose. She thrashed, her heavy designer dress instantly soaking up the water and dragging her toward the tiled bottom. She kicked her legs, her lungs screaming for oxygen, and managed to break the surface.

She gasped, choking on a mouthful of water.

Two yards away, Britany was elegantly treading water, letting out pathetic, breathy sobs.

A splash sounded from the edge. Antoine.

Anabelle's heart leaped. She reached her hand out toward her fiancé. Her fingertips grazed the wet fabric of his dress shirt as he swam past her.

He didn't even look at her.

Antoine's arms wrapped securely around Britany's waist. Britany instantly clung to his neck, burying her face in his shoulder. Antoine kicked hard, propelling them both toward the shallow end, leaving Anabelle thrashing in his wake.

Anabelle's arm dropped. The water swallowed her chin, then her nose. The burning in her chest morphed into a sharp, stabbing agony. Through the distorted blue water, she watched Antoine lift her sister out of the pool.

A strong arm hooked under Anabelle's armpit. The estate lifeguard hauled her up.

She collapsed onto the hot concrete tiles, vomiting pool water and coughing so hard her ribs felt cracked. Her soaking wet hair plastered to her face. She pushed herself up on shaking arms, her vision swimming. She forced her legs to lock, swaying for a moment before finding a fragile balance. Every step was a battle against the dizziness threatening to pull her back down. She didn't take the towel the lifeguard offered. Water dripped from her hem, pooling around her bare feet.

Antoine was kneeling on the deck. He had a thick, dry towel wrapped tightly around Britany's shoulders. He was rubbing her arms, his face pale with panic.

Britany peeked out from under the towel. Over Antoine's shoulder, she met Anabelle's eyes.

Britany's lips curved into a sharp, victorious smirk.

The cold from the pool vanished, replaced by a freezing numbness that started in Anabelle's chest and paralyzed her veins.

Antoine finally turned his head. His eyes landed on Anabelle's shivering, drenched form. There was no relief in his gaze. Only irritation.

"How could you be so careless, Anabelle?" Antoine snapped, his voice carrying over the whispers of the gathered guests. "You know Britany has a weak constitution."

The whispers grew louder.

"Anabelle is always so aggressive."

"She definitely pushed her."

Anabelle didn't defend herself. She sat on the wet concrete, her nails digging into her own palms until crescent moons of blood threatened to break the skin. She stared at the hand Britany had rested on Antoine's chest. The nails were painted with the exact shade of polish Anabelle had gifted her last week.

Eight years. Eight years of building a life with this man, shattered by a three-second performance.

Anabelle forced her legs to work. She stood up. She didn't take the towel the lifeguard offered. Water dripped from her hem, pooling around her bare feet.

"Sister, it was an accident," Britany whimpered, her voice trembling perfectly. "Don't be mad at her, Antoine."

Anabelle turned her back to them. The hot stone burned the soles of her feet, but she welcomed the pain. It kept her grounded.

"Where are you going?" Antoine demanded from behind her. "We need to talk about this."

Anabelle didn't stop. She kept her spine perfectly straight, walking through the parted crowd of guests, stepping into the grand foyer of the mansion.

She climbed the spiral staircase, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the marble. She walked into her bedroom and locked the door.

She pulled out her phone. Her fingers were shaking so badly she dropped it once before dialing her assistant.

"Cancel all my joint schedules with Antoine Page for next week," Anabelle said. Her voice sounded like it belonged to a dead woman.

She dropped the phone on the bed and walked into the bathroom. She stripped off the ruined dress, letting it fall to the floor like a shed skin. She stepped under the showerhead and turned the water to scalding hot.

The heat beat down on her back, but she couldn't stop shivering. Her chest rattled with a deep, unnatural cough. Her lungs burned. She needed a doctor, but more than that, she needed to end this.