I’d brought my father-in-law here for a much-needed vacation, but the second we stepped toward the hotel pool, a man in a garish, overpriced designer shirt started running his mouth. "Since when does this place let just any stray in? You sure they didn’t sneak in through the service entrance?" He pinched his nose, eyeing us with a performative shudder of disgust. "Sharing a pool with people like this… I’m actually worried about catching something." My mood, which had been light only moments ago, curdled instantly. I didn’t hold back. "We’re paying guests. We have every right to be here. If you’re so worried about the crowd, go build yourself a private villa." The man’s face turned a violent shade of puce. He surged forward, jabbing a finger inches from my nose. "Do you have any idea who owns this hotel? My wife! I have the penthouse suite on a permanent lease!" He sprayed spit as he screamed. "Get out. Now. Your cheap, pathetic energy is polluting the water. It’s making me sick just looking at you." I traded a look with my father-in-law, Antony. Our eyes went cold simultaneously. This was one of the flagship properties of the Whitmore Group—Octavia’s hotel. Since when did she have another husband? 1 Antony and I had intended to keep things low-key. We hadn't flashed our credentials at check-in, wanting a genuine guest experience, but I never expected it to turn into a circus. Antony had been a titan of industry for thirty years. He didn't even see this clown as a threat; he saw him as a nuisance to be swatted. "Who do you think you are, giving us orders?" Antony said, his voice level but carrying the weight of a gavel. "You’re the one who needs to leave. Your lack of manners is the only thing making this place feel cheap." He turned to me, ignoring the man who was now vibrating with rage. "Beckett, let’s just swim. Ignore him. When we get back, I’ll have a very long conversation with Octavia about exactly what’s going on here." Being ignored was clearly the man's breaking point. A cruel, jagged smile twisted his face. "Fine. If you love the water so much, let’s see how long you can stay in it." He barked into his phone, and a moment later, a burly, thick-necked guy in a staff polo jogged over. He looked at the garish man with fawning desperation. "Hey, Zane. What’s up? Ready for your lesson?" Zane pointed at us, his eyes gleaming with malice. "Rick, do me a favor. These two bottom-feeders need a lesson in humility. Show them how we handle 'trash' in Malibu." Rick didn't hesitate. He was a local swim coach, the kind of guy who thought muscles made him untouchable. "Don't worry, Zane. I know exactly how to handle guys who can't hold their breath." Before I could react, Rick dove into the water. He surged toward Antony, and with a sickening splash, he jammed his hand onto the back of Antony’s head, forcing him deep under the surface. Antony was in his late sixties. He was fit, but he was no match for a man in his prime. He began to thrash, bubbles breaking the surface in a frantic, desperate rhythm. "Stop!" I screamed, lunging through the water to shove Rick away. But the coach was fast. He pivoted, using his momentum to shove me down, too. I swallowed a mouthful of chlorinated water, my lungs burning as I fought to get back up. I managed to catch Rick with a sharp, desperate kick to the groin. He let out a muffled groan underwater and released his grip. I scrambled to grab Antony, hauling him to the surface. He was blue around the lips, gasping for air, his body racked by a cough so violent it sounded like his lungs were tearing. This was a man who had built an empire from a single roadside motel into a global luxury brand. He was a man used to being treated with the utmost reverence. To be degraded like this… it was unthinkable. He leaned against the edge of the pool, his chest heaving. "You… you could have killed me," he rasped, his voice trembling with fury. "This is assault. I'm calling my legal team. You’re finished." Zane just laughed, swirling a drink he’d picked up from a nearby table. "Kill you? Who cares? My wife owns hundreds of hotels. She makes enough in a day to buy and sell your miserable lives ten times over. You want to talk about lawyers? You think you can afford to play in our league?" My heart hammered against my ribs, but not just from the exertion. This hotel was one of the many Antony had handed over to Octavia to manage. This man’s "owner" act was too specific to be a coincidence. I gripped Antony’s shoulder to steady him and looked Zane dead in the eye. "Is your wife’s name Octavia Whitmore?" He smirked, preening like a peacock. "So, you’ve heard of her. Good. At least you aren't totally illiterate." He leaned down over the edge of the pool. "If you get on your knees right now, apologize, and then scrub this deck until it sparkles, I might tell her to go easy on you. Otherwise, when she gets here, you’re dead meat." A cold, hollow ache opened up in my chest. Octavia—the woman who had promised me forever, the woman I thought was my soulmate—was she really doing this? 2 Then, my eyes caught the tattoo just below his collarbone. It was a delicate, crimson maple leaf. I had seen the exact same design on Octavia’s lower hip. She’d told me she got it because the day we met, the autumn leaves were turning that specific, brilliant shade of red. She called it our "forever mark." I remembered being so moved, so deeply touched by her romanticism. What a joke. It wasn't our mark. It was theirs. The anger that rose in me was cold and sharp. It cleared my head. "As far as I know," I said, my voice cutting through his laughter, "Octavia Whitmore’s husband is a man named Beckett Montgomery. And you don't look like a Montgomery to me. You’re just the side-piece, aren't you? A kept man who’s forgotten his place." Zane’s smile vanished. His face contorted. "Don't you dare mention that loser’s name to me. Love doesn't follow a schedule. The person who isn't loved is the real interloper. Beckett is just a ghost she hasn't bothered to exorcise yet." He pulled out his phone, his voice dropping into a sickening, performative whine as the call connected. "Octa? Baby, where are you? I’m at the pool and these two old creeps are harassing me. They’re calling me names, baby… it’s horrible. You need to get down here and handle this. And listen, I want the pool cleared. Just for us. I’ve been practicing some new… moves… in the water. I want to show you." He hung up, his smugness returning tenfold. "She’ll be here in thirty minutes. You’re done. She has ways of making people like you disappear." I was shaking, a wave of nausea rolling over me. To think of her whispering sweet nothings to me last night, only to plan "water moves" with this brat today… it was repulsive. Antony looked at me, and I saw the heartbreak in his eyes transition into a hardened, diamond-sharp resolve. He knew. "Octavia," he whispered, his voice thick with disgust. "She’s exactly like her mother. Everything I gave her… I can take it all back." Antony hated infidelity with a passion that bordered on the religious. His first wife—Octavia’s mother—had stripped him of everything years ago, running off with a younger man and leaving him to rebuild from nothing while raising a daughter alone. He had poured his soul into Octavia, only to find the rot was hereditary. Antony owned the empire. Octavia just ran a piece of it. And as for me—Beckett Montgomery—the world might think I was a "trophy husband" because I preferred the quiet of my art studio to the boardroom, but I was the sole heir to the Montgomery shipping fortune. I didn't need Octavia’s money. I had only ever wanted her heart. "I can't wait to see how she explains this," I muttered. I noticed Antony’s face growing pale, his hand clutching at his chest. I moved to help him out of the water, but Zane gestured to the coach. Rick jumped back onto the deck and, as Antony reached for the ladder, Rick delivered a sharp, brutal kick to Antony’s shoulder. Antony splashed back into the pool, gasping. Zane roared with laughter. "Look at you! Like two drowning rats. You wanted the pool, didn't you? Stay in it! Rick, don't let them out until my wife gets here." Rick smirked. "You got it, Zane. Just remember to tell Ms. Whitmore how helpful I was. I’m looking for that promotion to Head of Athletics." Every time I tried to help Antony toward the edge, Rick was there, blocking us, threatening us with his heavy boots. Antony’s breathing became shallow, a terrifying whistling sound coming from his throat. "This isn't a game!" I screamed at the shore. "He has a heart condition! Let him out or I swear to God, you’ll spend the rest of your life in a cage!" Zane just swirled his wine. "Nice try. The 'heart attack' gambit? Please. You were swimming fine a minute ago. Rick, go kill the heater for the pool. Let’s see how they like the cold-water treatment." 3 "If he dies," I spat, my voice cracking, "it’s murder. The police won't care who your wife is." Zane leaned back in his lounge chair, basking in the sun. "Oh, stop being so dramatic. You want out? Beg. I thought you were so 'refined.' Let’s hear it. Beg for your lives." Antony’s lips were turning a terrifying shade of slate blue. He was shivering violently now, his eyes fluttering. I looked at him, ready to swallow every ounce of pride I had to save him. But Antony grabbed my arm. His grip was weak, but his eyes were fierce. "Don't," he wheezed. "I have never… knelt to a dog… and I won't start now. Beckett… I’ll be okay. But after today… she is dead to me. I survived her mother. I’ll survive her." Zane, annoyed by our defiance, turned to Rick. "Go to the kitchen. Bring out two buckets of ice. Let’s give these 'high-society' types a real chill." The ice hit the water around us with a series of sharp splashes. The temperature plummeted. I held Antony close, trying to share my body heat, but I was losing the battle. He was slipping away, his consciousness fading. "Help!" I screamed, the sound echoing off the luxury tiles. "Somebody! He’s dying!" The pool area was secluded, reserved for "VIPs." No one came. Rick finally looked a little nervous. He glanced at Antony’s limp form. "Hey, Zane… he looks pretty bad. Maybe we should let them up? If someone dies in the pool, the health inspectors will shut us down for weeks. Ms. Whitmore wouldn't like that." Zane paused, then shrugged. "I suppose you’re right. But they haven't learned their lesson. I told them—apologize, or stay in." He looked down at me. "Tell the truth, loser. Tell me I’m the man Octavia loves. Tell me Beckett Montgomery is a pathetic cuckold, and I’m the real king of this castle." He didn't know I was Beckett. He was asking me to curse my own name. I looked at Antony. His head was lolling back. His heart was failing. Nothing mattered—not my pride, not my name, not the betrayal. "I beg you," I whispered, my voice thick with bile. "Please. Just let him up. He’s dying." Zane grinned, a predator who had finally tasted blood. "Say it. Say Beckett is a loser and I’m the husband." I squeezed my eyes shut, my nails digging into my palms. "Beckett is a pathetic loser," I choked out. "You’re… you’re the only one she loves. Now let us up!" He laughed, a high, mocking sound. "I said I’d consider it. And I’ve considered it. I think you can stay in another five minutes." 4 "You’re a dead man," I hissed, my voice a low, terrifying promise. "That is her father. Antony Whitmore. If he dies, Octavia will skin you alive herself just to keep the cops off her back." Zane froze for a split second, then doubled over in laughter. "Oh, that’s rich! Now he’s the father? You just called him 'Dad' ten minutes ago! You guys are desperate. What’s next? Is he the Pope?" Antony’s body went rigid in my arms, then suddenly limp. He stopped shivering. His breathing stopped. "Help! Help! Cardiac arrest!" I roared. Finally, the hotel manager came running toward the commotion. He didn't recognize Antony immediately—it had been years since Antony had personally visited this site—but he saw the body in the water and turned pale. "Mr. Zane, what is happening?" "Just teaching some trespassers a lesson, Miller," Zane said, though he looked a bit twitchy now. "They need to come out, now," Miller said, his professional instinct for liability kicking in. "If a guest dies, we’re all ruined." Zane sighed, waving a hand dismissively. "Fine, fine. Let them up. They’ve ruined my afternoon anyway." Rick hauled us out. I collapsed on the deck, coughing, but immediately scrambled toward the locker rooms where our bags were. I needed Antony’s nitroglycerin. I found the bottle, my hands shaking so hard the pills nearly spilled. I ran back to Antony, who was sprawled on the tiles, silent. I tried to prize his jaw open to get the pill under his tongue. Suddenly, a foot shot out. Zane kicked the bottle right out of my hand. It skittered across the deck and fell through the drainage grate into the pool. "Enough with the theater," Zane snapped. "You’re out. Now get your trash and get lost before I call security to have you arrested for trespassing." The world turned red. I didn't think. I lunged upward and landed a solid, bone-crunching hook right across Zane’s jaw. He went down hard. "If he dies," I roared, "I will burn your world to the ground!" Zane screamed, clutching his face. "You hit me! Rick! Miller! Kill him!" The coach and the manager grabbed me, pinning my arms behind my back. Zane got up, his eyes wild with fury, and began raining slaps and punches across my face. My head spun, the copper taste of blood filling my mouth. I forced myself to stay conscious. I had to save Antony. I wrenched my arm free, nearly dislocating my shoulder, and lunged for my phone in my discarded bag. I dialed Octavia. "Octavia! Antony is having a heart attack at the Malibu pool. Get a medical team here now! If you’re not here in ten minutes, he’s gone!" Octavia’s voice came through, cold and irritated. "Beckett? What are you talking about? My father is in the city. Stop playing games to get my attention. I'm in a meeting. Call an ambulance if you’re so worried." She hung up. I stared at the phone, my heart breaking for the final time. Then, the glass doors to the lobby slid open. Zane’s face transformed from rage to pure, ecstatic joy. "Octa! Baby! You’re finally here!"
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