Thank God.
I row hard, muscle memory taking over, each stroke precise and practiced. I’ve been out here hundreds of times. I know this water better than most people ever will—the shallow shifts, the hidden currents, the places where the bay turns dangerous without warning.
There’s a sandbar in the center, where the currents twist together, pulling anything caught in them outward toward the Gulf. Most people avoid it.
I never did.
I trained there.
I built myself there.
And tonight, it will serve a different purpose.
Moonlight dances across the surface as I slow near the edge of the current. The water changes here—subtle, but unmistakable. I set the paddle down and lean over him, pressing my fingers to his neck one last time.
For a split second—I think I feel something.
A flicker.
A pulse.
But it’s faint. Too faint. Probably just my own blood hammering through my fingertips.
I don’t let myself think any further.
I hook my hands under his arms and heave, summoning everything I have left. His body tips over the edge of the dinghy and disappears into the shifting water, the current catching him almost immediately.
Gone.
I glance back toward shore, calculating the distance, the path back.
Then I look down at myself—at the silk of my dress, streaked with blood—and make the only choice I have left.
I jump.
The water hits me hard, cold and disorienting, the weight of my dress dragging me down for a terrifying second. I kick, fight, force my head above the surface, gasping as the current tugs at me, trying to pull me back.
Toward the boat.
Toward him.
“Come on, Whitney,” I mutter through clenched teeth. “You can do this.”
I push forward, arms slicing through the water, legs burning as the fabric tangles around me. Every stroke is a battle, every inch earned. I don’t let myself stop. I don’t let myself think.
I swim until the current loosens its grip.
Until the water shallows.
Until seaweed brushes against my ankles and the shore comes back into reach.
By the time I stumble onto land, my lungs are on fire and my entire body is trembling. I don’t stop moving. I can’t.
I reach the boathouse and immediately begin tugging at the laces of my dress, fingers clumsy and raw. There’s no way I can walk back into The Pierre like this—not drenched, not stained.
I strip the dress off and shove it into a nearby trash bin, then grab a tangle of discarded fishing net and other debris, piling it on top until the silk disappears beneath it.
Twenty thousand dollars.
