Clara froze on the spot, the gentle rocking of the yacht and the distant crash of waves suddenly feeling like they were closing in on her. A high-pitched ringing filled her ears, drowning out everything else. The dark sky above seemed to press down, casting long shadows across her face and filling her chest with dread.
Did Fin know something?
The thought hit her like ice water. No… no, there is no way. Her mind raced frantically. Did Mike say anything to him? What should I do?
Guilt and shame crashed over her in waves, so heavy she could barely breathe. Should I beg him? Plead for forgiveness? It was a mistake… it was a mistake…
A single tear slipped from the corner of her eye, tracing a warm path down her flushed cheek.
Fin stood at the railing a few steps away, the sea breeze tugging at his white shirt. He could see the internal struggle written all over her — the way her shoulders tensed, the way her fists clenched in her lap, the way her red dress rose and fell with her quick, shallow breaths. He could guess what she was probably thinking. But he couldn't help but ask the question that had been burning inside him since the Obsidian Club.
"Clara," he said quietly, voice heavy with exhaustion and pain, "do you truly love me?"
Clara's teary eyes snapped up to his. For a moment she looked terrified, then something sharper flashed across her face — desperation mixed with defiance.
"I don't know why you're asking me that," she said, voice trembling but fierce, tears still clinging to her lashes. "But I only ever loved you… and I still love you. Even if I made a mistake, I can't ever stop loving you. So please… don't doubt my love."
Her fists clenched tighter in her lap, knuckles whitening.
Fin stared at her for a long moment. The woman he had loved for years — the one whose laughter used to lift his entire world — was standing in front of him, tears shining in her eyes, begging him to believe her.
I will believe this time, Clara, he thought, the decision settling like lead in his chest. I will give you one more chance. But I hope you don't break it.
He moved forward and pulled her into his arms, holding her tight against his chest. His lips brushed her cheek in a soft, lingering kiss.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "Forget it. It was a stupid question."
Clara buried her face in his shoulder, tears soaking into his shirt as she hugged him back fiercely. The guilt inside her burned hotter than ever, but she clung to him like he was the only thing keeping her from falling apart.
The private dinner was served in their own stateroom later that night — a quiet, intimate meal of fresh seafood and chilled wine. Both of them were tired from the long day, so they ate in near silence before slipping into bed together. Fin held Clara close, her body warm and soft against his, the thin white nightdress she wore brushing against his skin. He fell asleep with her head on his chest, but his thoughts kept drifting back to Lila's words in the washroom… and the way Clara had looked at him on the deck.
As midnight passed and the yacht cut smoothly through the dark sea, Fin woke suddenly.
The bed beside him was empty.
His heart lurched violently.
"Clara?"
No answer.
He sat up, fumbling for the bedside lamp. The soft light illuminated the luxurious stateroom — cream silk sheets, dark walnut furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows showing nothing but black ocean and stars. The bathroom door was open and dark. He checked it anyway — empty.
"No… no… I'm overthinking it… no way it's happening again…"
His eyes darted around the room. Her phone was missing from the nightstand.
Fin's jaw clenched so hard it ached. His eyes burned with a mix of anger and dread. He threw on a casual high-quality gray T-shirt and dark trousers, the fabric soft but feeling heavy against his skin as he moved.
He left the stateroom, steps heavy on the thick carpet of the corridor. The yacht's interior was a maze of quiet luxury — wide hallways lined with dark wood paneling and soft recessed lighting, the faint hum of the engines vibrating through the floor, the distant crash of waves against the hull. Expensive art pieces hung on the walls, and the scent of polished teak and sea air drifted through the ventilation.
Fin moved through the dimly lit corridors of the Eleanor's Crown, his footsteps heavy on the thick carpet that lined the yacht's luxurious hallways. The superyacht was a floating world of quiet opulence — dark walnut paneling glowing under recessed lighting, the faint hum of the engines vibrating through the floor, and the distant, rhythmic crash of waves against the hull. Expensive abstract art hung on the walls, and the air carried the subtle scent of polished teak, sea salt, and the lingering trace of Clara's jasmine perfume from earlier.
He searched everywhere. The private cinema, the spa deck, the smaller lounges — every door he opened felt like another betrayal. His heart pounded harder with each empty room, a mix of dread and rising anger making his breath come short.
He finally stopped at the aft observation lounge — a secluded, glass-walled room with low lighting and wide sofas overlooking the dark sea. The sliding doors were slightly ajar, letting in the cool night breeze that carried the crisp scent of the ocean.
Fin stood at the railing, staring out at the black water, fists curled so tightly his knuckles turned white. The sea breeze tugged at his gray T-shirt and dark trousers, but it did nothing to cool the fire burning inside him.
Where are you, Clara? he thought, jaw clenched. Why are you doing this to me? All I ever did was love you… cherish you… Though I may not be perfect, I tried my best every single time just to see you smile…
The rage and pain boiled over. He punched the thick glass window with a savage crack. His skin ruptured instantly, blood flowing down his knuckles and dripping onto the teak floor. His eyes burned with raw anger.
Not this time, Clara. Not this time. I don't care what the circumstances are. I don't care if it was a mistake…
He glared at the dark sea, voice a low growl in his mind.
I will kill you, and that motherfucker. I promise.
Just as the thought settled like lead in his chest, he heard soft footsteps behind him.
"Fin…?"
He turned around sharply.
Clara stood there, eyes wide with shock. She was still in her thin white nightdress, the fabric clinging to her full breasts and the curve of her hips from the humidity, the deep V-neckline showing the soft swell of her cleavage and the faint outline of her hardened nipples. Her chestnut hair was loose and tousled, falling over one shoulder. She clutched her phone tightly in both hands, looking startled and guilty.
Fin's voice came out louder than he intended, edged with barely contained fury.
"Where the hell have you been, Clara?"
She flinched visibly — it was the first time she had ever heard him raise his voice at her like this. She clutched her phone tighter, voice stuttering.
"I just… I…"
Fin moved toward her, his bloodied hand reaching out and gripping her shoulder — too tightly. "Tell me. Where the hell were you in the middle of the night, wearing this?"
Clara winced, pain flashing across her face. "Fin… you're hurting me…"
The anger in his eyes shattered instantly. He released her shoulder as if burned, stepping back, staring at the red marks his fingers had left on her skin.
"I'm sorry… I didn't realize…"
Clara rubbed her shoulder, then held up her phone, showing him the screen with a recent missed call from her mother.
"I called back, but it didn't connect, so I went to check… She was already sleeping."
Fin nodded, but the paranoia that had been eating him alive refused to leave. "I'm sorry. I just… worried. When I couldn't find you…"
Clara smiled, but it was fragile. Inside, her thoughts raced: Fin knows something…
She noticed the blood on his hand for the first time, her eyes widening. "Fin… you're bleeding…"
He glanced down, quickly moving his hand behind his back. "It's nothing. Don't worry."
Clara gently pulled him back toward their stateroom, retrieving the first aid kit from the bathroom. She cleaned and bandaged his knuckles in silence, her touch soft and careful. Fin watched her, the woman he still loved more than anything, but the doubt lingered like poison in his veins.
As they finally slipped back into bed, Fin hugged her from behind, his body pressed close to hers, the thin nightdress the only thing between them. Clara stared at the wall, her thoughts drifting back to the moment she had slipped away earlier.
Her jaw tightened, a small, venomous whisper escaping her lips in the darkness.
"I will kill you, Mike…"
***
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