The first thing Ivy felt was the cold.
It wasn't just a chill; it was a bone-deep freeze that made her teeth chatter violently before she even opened her eyes. Then came the sting-sharp, salty spray hitting her face like tiny needles.
She gasped, her eyes flying open.
Darkness. Rain. The roar of an engine.
She tried to move, but her arms were pinned to her sides. Ropes bit into her wrists and ankles, coarse and tight. She was lying on a hard, wet surface. Teak wood. A deck.
Lightning flashed, illuminating the world in a stark, white strobe.
She was on a yacht. The sea churned black and angry around them, waves crashing against the hull.
Standing above her were three figures.
Braeden stood near the railing, his back to her, staring out at the storm. He held a glass of amber liquid, his posture relaxed.
Closer to her stood two women.
Calla Mcgowan was clinging to Braeden's arm, her face buried in his shoulder. She was shaking, seemingly sobbing. But as the lightning flashed again, Ivy saw Calla's eyes peeking out. They were dry. And they were smiling.
"Is she awake?" Brittny Mcgowan asked. Ivy's stepmother stepped forward, her high heel digging painfully into Ivy's shoulder.
Ivy tried to scream, but a strip of heavy duct tape sealed her mouth shut. She could only make a muffled, pathetic sound.
"Look at her," Brittny sneered, looking down at Ivy with pure contempt. "Like a drowned rat."
"Is it done?" Braeden asked, his voice bored. He didn't turn around.
"The doctor confirmed it. A threatened miscarriage, but the stress was too much. He said the tissue was expelled," Brittny lied smoothly, a flicker of cruel satisfaction in her eyes as she concocted the perfect story to sever Braeden's last tie to Ivy. She had paid the doctor handsomely to create a report that would satisfy Braeden's rage and seal Ivy's fate. "The bastard is gone. Just like her reputation."
Ivy's heart shattered. Gone? Her baby was gone? Tears welled in her eyes, hot and blinding, mixing with the rain on her face. She shook her head frantically, looking at Braeden's back, begging him silently to turn around, to see her.
"Good," Braeden said. "Get it over with. I have a board meeting in the morning."
Brittny snapped her fingers. Two burly men in dark raincoats stepped out from the shadows. They grabbed Ivy, one by the shoulders, one by the feet.
She thrashed, kicking uselessly against her bonds. She locked eyes with Calla. Help me, she pleaded with her eyes. We grew up together.
Calla just tightened her grip on Braeden's arm. "Poor Ivy," she whispered, loud enough for Braeden to hear. "She was so unstable. Suicide is such a tragedy."
Brittny leaned down as the men hoisted Ivy toward the railing. Her face was inches from Ivy's. She smelled of expensive perfume and rot.
"You want to know a secret, sweetie?" Brittny whispered, her voice barely audible over the wind. "Your mother didn't die of a heart attack."
Ivy went still. Her eyes widened in horror.
"I switched her pills," Brittny hissed, a cruel smile twisting her red lips. "It took weeks. Watching her heart fail, bit by bit. Just so I could take her place. And now... I'm taking yours."
Rage, hot and molten, exploded in Ivy's chest. It was the only thing warmer than the freezing rain. She screamed behind the tape, a sound of pure, animalistic fury.
Brittny laughed. "Goodbye, Ivy."
The men swung her.
Gravity took over.
For a second, she was weightless, suspended in the black void between the yacht and the water. Then, the ocean rushed up to meet her.
She hit the water with a bone-jarring impact.
The cold was absolute. It paralyzed her instantly, stealing the air from her lungs. She sank like a stone, the weight of the ropes dragging her down into the crushing dark.
The lights of the yacht faded above her, growing smaller and smaller.
Her lungs burned. Her vision began to tunnel.
This is it, she thought. I'm dying.
But then, Brittny's voice echoed in her mind. I switched her pills.
Her mother. Murdered.
Her baby. Killed.
Her life. Stolen.
No.
A primal instinct, older than fear, surged through her blood. She kicked. She thrashed. The water had soaked the ropes, making them slick. The knot around her wrists, tied hastily by careless thugs who underestimated a woman they thought was already half-dead, gave just a fraction of an inch.
Ivy pulled until her skin tore, until her wrist bone felt like it would snap. Fueled by a hatred that burned hotter than the icy water, she twisted with a final, desperate surge of adrenaline.
Her hand slipped free.
She ripped the tape from her mouth, a silent scream of bubbles escaping her lips. She clawed at the ropes around her ankles, freeing her legs.
Her lungs were screaming for air. The darkness was closing in.
She looked up. A faint, rhythmic thrumming sound vibrated through the water. Not the yacht. Something else.
A light. A small, bobbing light in the distance.
Ivy kicked upward. She fought the ocean, fought the pain in her abdomen, fought the desire to just let go.
She broke the surface, gasping, heaving in mouthfuls of salty air and rain.
The yacht was speeding away, a distant blur of lights on the horizon. They hadn't looked back.
But fifty yards away, a fishing trawler was cutting through the waves.
"Help!" Ivy rasped, her voice broken. "Help me!"
She swam. Every stroke was agony. Every kick sent fire through her injured womb. But she swam with the hatred of a woman who had nothing left to lose.
As she reached the side of the rusty boat, grabbing onto a dangling net, she looked back at the disappearing yacht.
I will kill you, she vowed, the thought clear and cold in her mind. I will kill you all.
