Chapter 3 - Poison in the Champagne Flutes
In the yacht’s private radio cubicle, shielded behind heavy acoustic baffling, the satellite phone connected on the second ring.
“Dad,” I whispered the moment the line crackled to life.
“Elena? Sweetheart, what’s going on? Flynn texted earlier saying you were sleeping off a bug and asked me not to call.” My father’s voice was warm, but there was an underlying tension, the instinct of a self-made billionaire who never fully trusted quiet waters.
“Dad, don’t speak, just listen,” I said, keeping my tone steady. “Cancel your trip to Aspen immediately. Fire your head chauffeur, Davis—Flynn bought him out. Flynn, Aidan, and Fiona are planning to murder me tonight during the storm, make it look like an accidental drowning, and execute an offshore power of attorney they forged.”
A silence descended on the other end of the line—the deadly, chilling quiet of a predator realizing someone had laid a hand on his cub.
“Are you safe right now?” Dad asked, his voice dropping into pure ice.
“I’m with Captain Campbell. We have control of the vessel’s internal systems,” I said. “He doesn't know I’m awake. Dad, don’t send the Coast Guard yet. If they see blue lights or a cutter coming across the horizon, he’ll panic and shoot his way through the crew. I want them caught dead to rights. I want their confessions recorded on audio, video, and signed in ink.”
“I have our legal team and the FBI maritime division patching in right now,” Dad replied. “Hold your ground, baby. We’re tracking your coordinates.”
Leaving Campbell to coordinate the digital recording suite, I made my way silently back up toward the galley. The clock read 10:15 PM. The yacht groaned as twenty-foot waves hammered the starboard side, throwing spray across the saloon windows.
Through the double-glazed tinted glass of the main salon, I saw Flynn, his father Aidan, and his mother Fiona sitting on white Italian leather couches. They had opened another bottle of vintage reserve.
“I’ve already contacted the broker in Zurich,” Aidan said, swirling amber liquor in a crystal glass with a manic grin. “Once the body is recovered—or declared unrecoverable after seventy-two hours—we initiate the freeze-out clause. Elena’s father won’t have the emotional stamina to fight us in court while mourning his precious little girl.”
“And what about her mother?” Fiona chimed in, adjusting a diamond tennis bracelet that Flynn had bought with my corporate credit card. “She’s always been sharp. Suspicious.”
Flynn smiled, resting his bare feet on the teak coffee table. “Mom, after Elena’s father crashes his Range Rover off the Colorado ridge, the mother will be institutionalized with grief. We walk away with the entire portfolio. Three hundred million in liquid equities, the Hamptons estate, and this boat.”
He raised his glass. “To marrying well.”
“To marrying well,” Aidan and Fiona laughed, clinking their glasses together.
I stood in the darkness of the galley pantry, holding a small brown glass vial I had retrieved from Captain Campbell’s medical safe. It contained liquid Ipecac and a strong veterinary tranquilizer used for sedation during animal rescue.
When Flynn walked out to the main deck to check the sea conditions, Fiona and Aidan stepped into the powder room to freshen up. Moving like a ghost, I slipped into the salon. I uncorked the crystal decanter of thirty-year-old scotch sitting on the bar, poured half the vial into the amber liquid, swirled it, and melted back into the crawlspace before the bathroom door unlocked.
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They wanted to play with chemicals. They wanted to drug an unsuspecting woman and steal her life away.
It was time they learned what happened when you tried to drown someone who was born in deep water.
