Chapter 7 - The Midnight Stroll
At exactly 11:30 PM, the key rattled in the door.
The cabin lights were dim, casting long, dramatic shadows across the room. I was sitting upright on the edge of the bed, wearing a thick, cream-colored cashmere coat over my silk pajamas, staring blankly at the floor with my hair deliberately tousled to look like a woman lost in a chemical haze.
The door swung open, and Lucas stepped inside, followed closely by his father, Roderick, and mother, Gertrude, who were hovering quietly in the corridor like silent specters.
“Is she ready?” Roderick whispered anxiously from the doorway, his eyes darting toward the bed.
“Completely out,” Lucas replied with a confident smirk, walking over to me and offering his arm. “Look at her. She can barely keep her head up. The storm is hitting its peak outside. Perfect cover. No one will see a thing.”
“Make sure you check the safe for the secondary bearer bonds before you push her,” Gertrude hissed quietly, wringing her hands with avaricious excitement. “We leave nothing behind.”
“Relax, Mother,” Lucas scoffed. “Everything is already handled. Come on, Eleanor, sweetheart. Time to get some fresh air.”
He reached down, grabbing my arm with a grip that was far too rough for a loving husband. He hauled me to my feet. My legs wobbled realistically, swaying slightly as I let him pull me toward the exit.
As we walked out into the corridor, I caught a glimpse of Roderick and Gertrude slipping back down toward the lower lounge to wait for the confirmation call.
Lucas led me up the grand staircase toward the upper aft deck. As we stepped through the heavy glass bulkhead doors, the full fury of the midnight squall hit us like a physical blow.
The wind shrieked through the rigging like a dying banshee. Heavy sheets of rain slammed horizontally across the teakwood deck, soaking our clothes instantly. The massive yacht pitched violently to Port, riding the crest of a twenty-foot swell before plunging downward into the trough of the dark, churning ocean.
The surrounding sea was an abyss of black ink, churning whitecaps, and roaring spray. There were no lights visible for miles—only the stormy horizon swallowing the edge of the world.
Lucas guided me toward the far edge of the stern, right up against the gleaming brass railing where the safety gate stood unlatched. The open sea yawned directly beneath us, a churning monster waiting to swallow its prey.
“Isn’t it beautiful, Eleanor?” Lucas shouted over the roar of the wind, his voice laced with a dark, triumphant ecstasy. He pulled me close against his chest, his arm wrapping around my shoulders, pressing me hard against the rail.
“It’s very cold, Luke,” I shouted back, my voice trembling—not with fear, but with an icy, controlled fury.
“Don't worry, darling,” he whispered, his face inches from mine, his eyes gleaming with mad ambition as he looked down at the dark water below. “You won't feel the cold for very long.”
He shifted his grip, sliding his hands from my shoulders down to my lower back, planting his palms squarely against my spine.
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“Thank you for everything, my love,” he whispered into my ear, his breath hot against my skin. “The money, the empire, the future. You were a wonderful wife... for about three days.”
And with that, he braced his legs, tightened his core, and shoved forward with all his might.
