Stella March - POV
I'm drowning, and the last thing I see is my best friend's face.
The observation deck tilts beneath my feet. No—I'm tilting. The lighthouse, the stars, the winter sky—everything spins. My tongue is thick, wrong. I only had two glasses of champagne. The gold fabric of my dress whips around my legs as I try to step forward. My knees buckle.
"Ethan?" The word comes out slurred. "Something's wrong"
He's holding my research drive. The one from my lab safe. Black metal glints under the deck lights. His face looks almost sorry. Not angry. Just regretful. That terrifies me more than rage would.
"I'm sorry, Stella." His voice is gentle, like he's ending things. "You have to understand. We didn't want this."
We?
I turn my head—too slow, moving through syrup—and Vanessa blocks the stairs. The only exit. Her face is blank. Not the Vanessa who braided my hair in grad school. Not the Vanessa who held me at my father's funeral. This is a stranger wearing her skin.
"Vanessa?" I reach for her but my arm won't lift. "What are you doing?"
"Forty-two million, Stella." She says it like she's ordering coffee. Casual. "Helix transferred half already. You understand."
I don't understand. The champagne. The numbness spreading from my fingers up my arms. Ethan holding my life's work. Vanessa between me and the stairs.
"You were always going to waste it on academic glory," Vanessa continues. She moves closer. I try backing away but my legs refuse. "Publishing papers. Winning awards. Being noble. We're being practical."
My research. Two years of work. The peptide compound from deep-sea organisms that could save millions of lives. My father died from a treatable infection because antibiotics failed. I dedicated everything to making sure other fathers wouldn't die like that.
And they're selling it.
"No." I force the word through numb lips. "You can't—"
"It's done." Ethan's voice hardens. "The contract's signed. Helix gets the compound. We get paid. You get—"
He stops. I see it in his eyes anyway.
I get to disappear.
"We're supposed to get married." My vision blurs. Whatever they drugged me with pulls me under. "Ethan, please—"
"The wedding was cover." He shakes his head. "I cared about you. That was real. But this matters more."
This matters more. More than me. My legs give out. I crash to my knees on the cold deck. Below, the Atlantic roars against rocks. December water. Freezing.
They're going to throw me in.
"Vanessa." I look up at her. Seven years of friendship. "Please don't."
She crouches in front of me. Something flickers in her eyes—doubt maybe—then vanishes.
"I'm sorry it's you," she whispers. "But it was always going to be someone."
Her hands land on my shoulders. Gentle, almost like she's helping me stand. But I'm at the railing now. I don't remember moving. Wind screams. Below, waves smash white against black rocks.
"I trusted you with everything." My voice cracks.
"I know." Her face is the last thing I see clearly. "That's why this works."
She pushes.
Just firm pressure, and there's nothing under me but air and darkness and wind tearing the sound from Ethan's mouth.
I fell.
The water hits like a fist.
December Atlantic punches into my chest. Freezing daggers drive into my skin. I gasp and water rushes into my mouth, down my throat. I'm choking, coughing, arms flailing. The gold dress drags me down like chains. I kick but my legs are dead weight.
I broke the surface once. Suck air. The lighthouse blazes above me—impossibly far, lights bright and indifferent. Music drifts from the gala. People are drinking champagne while I drown.
A wave crashes over my head.
Under again. Water fills my nose. Burns my sinuses. I'm swallowing the ocean and coughing it back and breathing it in. Salt taste. Pressure building in my ears. The dress pulls me deeper.
My father's face flashes through my mind. His smile when I got into MIT. His pride at my first publication. His gray skin in the hospital bed, dying from bacteria that antibiotics couldn't touch.
I tried to save people like him. Now I'm dying because of it.
My lab. Years of eighteen-hour days. The compound that could change everything. Stolen. Sold like a product on a shelf.
Vanessa laughing at graduation. Vanessa at my father's funeral. Vanessa's hands on my shoulders.
How long were they planning this? How blind was I?
The cold stops burning. That's worse. That means I'm dying for real. Darkness presses in—thick, absolute. My lungs quit fighting. Everything stops.
I trusted you with everything.
The ocean takes me.
Silence.
Darkness.
Nothing.
Then—wait.
I jerk upright, scream caught in my throat.
My hands fly to my neck, clawing. Expecting water. Finding air. My lungs drag in oxygen in huge gasps. I'm choking on nothing. Drowning on dry land.
I'm at my desk.
My lab desk at Cape Marlowe Marine Research Institute. Computer glowing. Papers scattered everywhere. My coffee mug sits near the keyboard.
The screen shows 2:34 PM. December 17th.
No.
I stand so fast my chair crashes backward. Grab the desk because my legs shake. The room tilts but it's real—solid floor, warm air, lights humming. I touch everything. Desk: solid. Papers: real. My arms: dry. Not waterlogged. Not dead.
I'm not dead.
I stumble to the bathroom. Slap the light switch. The mirror shows my face—brown eyes, dark hair in a messy bun. Same as always. Except my eyes look different. Wild. Hunted. Like prey that learned what teeth feel like.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
I stare at it.
It buzzes again.
I pick it up with shaking hands. Text from Vanessa: "Coffee tomorrow? Miss your face! ❤️"
The phone drops from my fingers. Clatters against the sink. I grip the counter and vomit into the toilet. Once. Twice. Until there's nothing left but bile and the phantom taste of salt water.
I slide to the bathroom floor. Cold tile presses against my legs. Cold means real. I drowned in cold water. Now I'm sitting on a cold tile. I need to think.
December 17th. Fourteen days before New Year's Eve. Fourteen days before Vanessa pushes me. Fourteen days before I drown.
Except I already drowned.
I remember everything. The drug. Ethan with my research. Vanessa's blank face. The fall. The water crushing my chest. Dying.
All of it.
I pull myself up. Look in the mirror. The wild eyes stare back.
Either I'm insane—the most vivid psychotic break in history—or something impossible just happened.
I died.
And somehow, I came back.
My hands grip the sink edge. Knuckles white. This isn't a second chance. It's a warning. They're going to kill me in two weeks. They've probably been planning it for months. And I walked into it blind because I trusted them.
Not this time.
My phone buzzes in the sink. I picked it up. Steadier now. Open the browser with shaking fingers. Type: "Carter Blackwell journalist Cape Marlowe."
His photo loads. Dark eyes. Sharp jaw. Three-day stubble. The article headline: "Disgraced Reporter Stands By Pharma Exposé Despite Backlash."
Everyone at the Institute hates him. He destroyed careers three years ago exposing pharmaceutical corruption. Didn't care who got hurt as long as the truth came out. Ruthless. Dangerous. Morally questionable.
Perfect.
Fourteen days until they kill me.
Unless I destroy them first.
I stare at Carter Blackwell's photograph. His eyes look as cold as the Atlantic that killed me.
I whisper to the screen: "I need someone who doesn't care who gets hurt. Everyone says that's you."
My reflection in the dark phone screen shows a stranger. Someone who drowned and came back different.
Good.
Let them see what they created when they pushed me off that lighthouse.
I have fourteen days to become the monster they should have feared from the beginning.