Chapter 3: Sixty Seconds
The handle turned — and held.
The deadbolt.
I had locked it when I came back in.
That single click of metal was the only thing standing between me and Flynn's tea.
"Sweetheart?" His voice was warm.
Patient.
The voice of a man who had never once been refused.
"The lock must have slipped.
Open up, darling."
I looked at the burner phone in my hand.
Then at the door.
"Sorry." I made my voice small and thick, the way it had sounded all week when the dr*gs were heaviest.
"I think I was half asleep.
Give me a second."
I crossed to the bed, slid the burner phone under the mattress, and pulled the sheets up around my waist.
By the time I turned the deadbolt and climbed back against the pillows, my expression was soft and vacant.
Harmless.
Flynn stepped in carrying a white ceramic mug.
Steam curled from the top.
"There she is." He smiled — that slow, practiced smile I had once believed was only for me.
He set the mug on the nightstand and pressed his palm to my forehead.
"Still warm.
You should drink this.
It'll help you sleep."
I looked at the tea.
"What's in it?"
"Ginger.
Honey." He tilted his head.
"Why?"
"I just — my stomach is still unsettled." I touched my abdomen and winced slightly.
"I don't think I can keep anything down."
He watched me for a moment.
Something moved behind his eyes — calculation, dressed as concern.
"All right." He picked the mug back up.
"I'll leave it here in case you change your mind."
He set it back down.
He didn't take it with him.
"Flynn." I reached for his hand before he could step away.
His fingers were cool.
"Will you stay with me for a little while?
I don't want to be alone."
The calculation shifted.
He sat on the edge of the bed and stroked my hair, and I let him, because every minute he spent in this room was a minute I could think.
"Of course," he said.
"I'm not going anywhere."
The lie sat between us like the untouched mug of tea.
I kept my breathing slow.
My eyes half-closed.
I let him believe the dr*gs were still doing their work.
After twenty minutes, his phone buzzed in his pocket.
He glanced at it, then at me.
"Rest," he said softly.
"I'll check on you before midnight."
He left.
The door clicked shut behind him — but this time he didn't lock it from the outside.
He didn't think he needed to.
The moment his footsteps faded down the corridor, I was out of the bed.
I retrieved the burner phone.
I opened the message thread again and scrolled up further — past the exchange I'd already read, past a dozen logistical messages about timing and weather and the crew's schedule — until I found a name.
Not a number.
A name.
*Cassandra.*
Three weeks before the wedding, Flynn had sent her a photo.
I recognized the restaurant.
I had been there that same evening — I remembered because he'd told me he was working late.
In the photo, Cassandra was wearing my engagement ring.
She was holding it up to the light, laughing.
Flynn's hand was visible at the edge of the frame, and he had captioned the photo with four words:
*Soon it'll be yours.*
My hands had stopped shaking.
Something colder had replaced the fear — something that felt, for the first time, like clarity.
I needed to get off this yacht.
And I needed to do it before Flynn came back at midnight.
I pulled up the burner phone's contacts.
There were only four numbers saved.
Three were labeled with single initials.
The fourth was labeled *Captain R.*
May you like
I stared at that name for a long moment.
Then I heard footsteps in the corridor again — heavier than Flynn's, moving fast — and they stopped directly outside my door.
