POV: Ione Mercer
I hit the yellow railing hard. My ribs throbbed from the impact of Damian’s shove.
Theo looked down at me from the metal rescue basket. His hands remained clamped on the safety bars. His lips parted. A silent sorry formed, barely a breath against the roaring flames.
“Theo,” I gasped, clutching my side. “Don’t do this. Give me your hand.”
He didn’t answer. He stared at me.
“I raised you!” I screamed.
The helicopter hoist ground loudly. The cable snapped taut. The basket lifted away from the deck, carrying my husband’s mistress and the son I had saved a thousand times into the smoke-filled sky.
Before I could scream his name again, the Thalassa groaned. The deck pitched violently to the right.
Champagne flutes rolled off the dining table and splintered across the deck. I lost my footing. My shoes slipped on the wet teak, sending me sliding across the deck until I slammed into the emergency supply station.
The red plastic emergency box shattered during the tilt. A heavy, soaked clipboard slapped against my thigh.
I grabbed the metal clip, ready to hurl it into the ocean, but the bold black letters caught my eye. Primary Passenger Manifest.
“Ma’am, grab a vest!” a young deckhand yelled. He tossed a flimsy yellow life preserver at my feet, his face smeared with grease. “We are abandoning ship!”
“I don’t need a vest,” I yelled back, kicking the orange foam away. “I need to stop that hoist!”
“The first load is gone! The cable is already retracting!”
I looked down at the clipboard.
“Sign this for the port authority,” Damian had said three days ago. He had tossed this exact document onto the marble island, right next to my cutting board.
“I’m prepping the lobster,” I had replied, wiping my hands on a towel. “What is it?”
“Just a headcount for the private dock. Sign it, Ione. Don’t make a project out of it.”
I signed it quickly, snapping a photo to confirm the dinner portions. Four passengers.
Now, thick black ink slashed through my name.
Ione Mercer was crossed out.
Sabine Moreau was written above it in Damian’s sharp, slanted handwriting.
Beside my crossed-out name, a red stamp glared up at me: DEPARTED - PORT TENDER 1.
“What is this?” I demanded. I shoved the wet paper into the boy’s chest.
He stumbled back, coughing. “That’s the passenger log! Drop it!”
“Look at this line!” I grabbed his collar, forcing him to look at the paper. “Someone crossed out my name! They stamped me as departed!”
“I don’t know anything about that!” The boy ripped himself out of my grip. “The port tender deployed half an hour ago! It’s gone!”
“I was in the kitchen half an hour ago!” I screamed. “My husband forged this!”
“Then you missed your boat! The fuel lines are melting!” The boy turned, vaulted over the side railing, and vanished into the dark water.
Water sloshed over my ankles. The ship was sinking fast, the stern dipping dangerously low.
I ripped the manifest from the metal clip. I shoved my hand into my apron pocket and pulled out a heavy-duty, waterproof silicone food bag.
I folded the soaked paper, sealed it inside the silicone pouch, and zipped it tight.
“Help! Somebody help!” a woman screamed from the upper deck.
I scanned the rising water. An orange insulated delivery box bobbed against the shattered glass of the dining room doors. I lunged for it. The thick foam cooler would float.
I hugged the heavy box to my chest and dragged myself toward the broken section of the safety railing.
A second rescue boat pulled up alongside the burning hull, its spotlight cutting through the thick smoke.
“Who else is up there?” a voice boomed from a megaphone below.
I dragged the heavy foam box to the edge of the cracked fiberglass railing.
“I’m here!” I screamed. The roaring flames swallowed my voice, turning it into a pathetic rasp.
Damian stood on the lower boarding platform. He adjusted the cuffs of his soot-stained shirt with an obscene calm and stared down at the rescuer.
“That’s everyone from the primary suite!” Damian yelled.
“The captain logged four primary passengers!” the rescuer shouted, shining a high-powered flashlight onto the lower deck. The beam swept over the burning wreckage. “Where is your wife, Mr. Argyros?”
I froze. My fingers dug deep into the foam cooler, tearing off small white chunks.
“Damian!” I yelled. I leaned over the rail, waving my arm frantically. “Tell them to send the ladder up! I’m right here!”
He didn’t look up. He didn’t flinch. He planted his feet firmly on the metal grate.
“My wife is not on board,” Damian answered smoothly.
“Are you absolutely sure, sir? Protocol says we have to check the galley!” The rescuer moved toward the boat’s control console. “I’m sending two men up!”
“Do not send anyone up there!” Damian barked, his voice suddenly sharp and authoritative.
“Sir, if she’s trapped—”
“I said she is gone!” Damian pointed a rigid finger at the rescuer. “She took the port tender twenty minutes ago. She is already safe on shore.”
“We can’t leave without verifying the manifest!”
“I am telling you she is off the ship!” Damian snarled. He grabbed the rope ladder dangling from the rescue boat and blocked the path. “Do you want us all to burn? I am not dying out here because you want to play hero. Get me off this vessel now!”
My chest caved in. The heat from the fire vanished, replaced by a freezing numbness that started in my fingertips and spread to my heart.
He wasn’t leaving me behind by accident. He was making sure no one came looking for me.
I reached behind my apron bib. The small metal voice recorder was still clipped to the fabric. The tiny red light blinked rapidly, capturing every word of Damian’s lie.
I unclipped it, my hands trembling violently.
“You bastard,” I rasped to the empty air. “You planned this.”
I shoved the recorder into the waterproof silicone bag with the forged manifest. I pressed the plastic seal together, running my thumb over the edge three times to ensure it was watertight. I tucked the bag securely into the deep interior pocket of my chef’s coat, zipping it shut.
A deep, mechanical rumble shook the soles of my shoes. The vibrations traveled up my legs, rattling my teeth.
“Get clear of the hull!” someone shrieked from the water.
The engine room blew.
A massive shockwave of orange fire ripped through the center of the yacht. The sheer force of the heat slammed into my back, lifting me off my feet.
I vaulted over the broken railing, clutching the insulated box to my chest like a shield.
Gravity seized me. The wind roared in my ears as I plummeted toward the churning black ocean.
Right before the freezing seawater sealed my ears, I looked up at the shattered galley window. The analog kitchen clock hung crooked on the wall, its hands permanently stopped at 22:17, just as a second, blinding explosion illuminated the hull deep below the waterline.
