Chapter 4 - The One Phone Call
I dragged my deadweight body back down the corridor, sliding along the mahogany walls until I reached the door of our suite. I slipped inside, locked the heavy deadbolt with a trembling click, and collapsed onto the edge of the bed.
The digital clock glowed in the darkness: 4:15 PM.
Seven hours until midnight. Seven hours until they expected me to walk sleepily onto the aft deck, unaware that my executioner was standing right behind me.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. My mind raced through options, discarding them one by one. I couldn't scream for help; the crew had been handpicked by Roderick and Lucas from their own private security firm before we left port. Any distress call I made to the bridge would be intercepted, ignored, or reported straight back to my husband.
I couldn't lock myself in the room forever. Eventually, they would break the door down, drag me out, and finish what they started.
I need outside help. I need someone with more power, more money, and more ruthlessness than the Vance family combined.
My hand fumbled across the bedside table, searching for my smartphone. It was gone. Lucas must have taken it off the nightstand while I was sleeping, or perhaps it was sitting on the charging dock across the room.
I crawled across the carpet toward the marble-topped desk near the window. There it was—the sleek glass rectangle resting face down next to a silver pen.
I reached out, my fingers trembling as I grabbed it. I pressed the side button. The screen lit up, illuminating my pale, sweat-slicked face in the dark room.
Face ID locked.
My eyes were too heavy, my features too relaxed from the drug cocktail to trigger the facial recognition scanner. I tried to swipe up to enter the passcode, but my fingers were shaking so violently I hit the wrong numbers twice.
Warning: 3 attempts remaining.
“Damn it, think, Eleanor,” I whispered fiercely to myself. I closed my eyes, took a deep, agonizing breath, forced my hand to steady, and punched in the six-digit numerical backup code—the birthday of my grandfather, the founder of the shipping empire who had taught me that survival is the ultimate virtue.
The screen unlocked.
I didn't open WhatsApp. I didn't open my banking apps. I tapped the phone icon and dialed a ten-digit number from memory—a number that wasn't saved in my contacts under a name, but was burned into my brain like a brand.
It rang once. Twice. Three times.
Just as I was about to panic, a deep, raspy, impeccably sharp voice answered on the other end of the line.
“Vance Global Security Operations. This is Director Thorne. State your authorization code and secure line identifier.”
“Director Thorne,” I whispered into the receiver, my voice trembling but carrying an edge of cold steel that made the man pause instantly. “This is Eleanor Vance-Hayes. Authorization code: Delta-Nine-Victor-Zero-Seven.”
A sharp intake of breath echoed through the receiver. Director Thorne was the head of my father’s elite, private corporate intelligence and counter-surveillance division—a man whose existence was a closely guarded secret known only to executive board members.
“Mrs. Hayes?” Thorne’s professional demeanor instantly shifted into razor-sharp alertness. “We have your telemetry pinging off the coast of San Diego aboard the Serenade. Are you in distress? Where is Mr. Vance?”
“Listen to me very carefully, Thorne,” I interrupted, cutting through his protocol with absolute authority. “My husband, Lucas, and his parents are currently plotting my murder. They plan to throw me overboard tonight at midnight during the squall, forge my signature via a pre-signed power of attorney to steal the $300 million trust, and eliminate my parents next week in Salt Lake City.”
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Silence stretched across the line for three agonizing seconds. Then, Thorne spoke, and his voice was no longer just professional—it was predatory.
“Understood, ma’فضل. What are your orders?”
