The ocean pulsed black beneath the luxury yacht, a slick obsidian mirror shivering under synthetic starlight and bass-heavy music. Laughter spilled over the rails. Champagne fizzed. Somewhere, a pop song pounded on about love, lust, and forever.
But none of that was real - not for Isla.
She stood near the edge of the deck, crystal flute in hand, trying not to think. The sea was a shadowy sprawl beneath them, waves catching glints of the ambient lighting like blinking eyes. Fireworks hadn't started yet. They were saving them for dessert.
Her reflection flickered in the glass wall behind her. She barely recognized it.
The midnight blue gown shimmered with every breath, sewn with thousands of micro-crystals that caught even the faintest hint of light. The fabric wrapped her like liquid night - cinched at the waist, slit to the hip, the heart-shaped bodice hugging her ribs with ruthless precision. Off-the-shoulder sleeves draped elegantly over her arms, exposing just enough skin to be scandalous, just enough structure to be art.
Her hair, usually loose and wavy, had been twisted into tight, formal ringlets by a celebrity stylist whose hourly rate could fund a small country's infrastructure. Her makeup was flawless - eyes smoked, lips dusted in rose gold, skin sculpted to dewy perfection. On her feet: crystal-clear stilettos that shimmered like glass slippers. Custom Louboutin. One-of-a-kind.
She looked like a queen at a coronation.
And yet… she felt like a lamb being led to something she couldn't name.
The laughter behind her sharpened the unease, as if every giggle and clink of glass carried an edge. She kept her body angled toward the sea, away from the golden crowd behind her. From here she could almost pretend she wasn't part of it - that she was a guest who could slip away at any moment. But she couldn't. Every jewel on her body, every stitch of the gown screamed that she belonged here. Caleb had seen to that. He curated her image with the same care he curated his investments. The problem was, she no longer saw herself in the product.
"God, I hate you," one of her friends whispered with a laugh.
Isla turned. Tiffany, or maybe it was Renee, was holding a martini and trying not to spill it. She gestured toward the yacht's banquet table - already cleared from a five-course culinary masterpiece flown in from Saint-Tropez.
"This party is insane," Tiffany/Renee said. "It's not an engagement dinner; it's a dynastic alliance. If Caleb starts breathing fire and summoning a live orchestra, I won't be surprised."
The others giggled and sipped their champagne.
"It's so perfect I want to vomit," another said, eyes sweeping Isla's gown with naked envy.
Isla smiled tightly. She should've felt triumphant. She was the woman everyone wanted to be.
She just wished she felt like herself.
The envy in their eyes stung more than it flattered. They didn't see the strings attached, the way every compliment was another layer of pressure. They didn't see how her smile trembled at the edges. To them, she was lucky, radiant, untouchable. To Isla, she was a silhouette playing a part - each laugh rehearsed, each nod choreographed. She wondered if anyone here would recognize her if she stripped away the gown and jewels and spoke honestly. The thought was absurd. Honesty wasn't part of the performance.
"You okay?"
The voice slid around her like silk.
She turned to find Caleb behind her - golden, polished, his smile professionally warm. He was dressed in black on black, his cufflinks monogrammed and subtle. The man could blend into any power structure on earth. A creature built from lineage and money.
"I'm fine," Isla said.
He stepped closer. "Come with me."
She followed without question. The party drifted below them, laughter and music muffled as they climbed to the top deck. It was quieter here. Cleaner.
There, beneath the glow of hanging lanterns, stood a table with two flutes, roses in a crystal vase, and candles battling the wind.
He turned her toward the railing. The sea waited, endless and dark, the night air smelling like salt and money.
The waves slapped the hull like an impatient hand, steady, unrelenting. The sound rooted in her chest, louder than the music they'd left behind. She gripped the railing for balance, realizing her hands were slick with sweat despite the cool air. The gown's crystals shimmered, but it wasn't glamour she felt - it was armor that weighed her down.
"I wanted to give you something," he said.
He pulled out a small velvet box.
She blinked. "What is it?"
"A stand-in," he said. "Until your ring's back."
She touched her bare finger out of instinct.
He opened the box.
A necklace. A strand of pearls so white they shimmered like frost. Perfectly matched. Glossy. Cold.
"Let me," he whispered.
She didn't move.
His fingers brushed her neck, cool and sure. The clasp clicked closed. The pearls settled against her collarbones.
The weight was immediate - soft but suffocating, like a chain disguised as elegance. Each pearl pressed into her skin like a frozen secret. She wanted to rip it off, fling it into the waves, but her body betrayed her, remaining still as his breath grazed her hairline.
"Beautiful," he said.
She turned her face toward the sea. Beneath them, the ocean surged.
In the distance, the first firework bloomed - silent at first, a burst of pink and gold against the sky.
And then -
The push.
Hard. Surgical. Final.
The world tilted.
She had one split-second to register the shift, the betrayal, the cold certainty in his touch.
Then - air, metal, water.
Her scream never surfaced.
Her temple hit the hull with a dull crack.
She vanished.
He didn't look over the railing.
Not right away.
Instead, he adjusted his cuffs, ran a hand through his perfect hair, and exhaled slowly.
There was no hesitation. No flicker of guilt. Only precision, as if this moment had been rehearsed. Caleb moved like a man who had removed a stain from his suit - not a fiancée from his life.
Then he descended to the lower deck - walking casually into a conversation with a tech CEO over cognac. Laughed at the right moment. Took a flute of something amber and aged.
No one asked about Isla.
They never even noticed she was gone.
Below the waves, the ocean closed around her.
She sank, limbs drifting like silk in ink. Her blood spiraled upward in slow, elegant ribbons. The pearls around her throat gleamed like moon-teeth in the dark.
The music above was gone.
The light, gone.
She was alone.
And then -
She wasn't.
