Chapter 1 - The words Anthony had used stayed with me long after he disappeared below deck.
Claim what’s mine.
They were exactly the kind of words a man like Anthony Russell could say without realizing how frightening they sounded.
For nearly an hour, I sat beneath the shaded canopy on the upper deck, watching sunlight scatter across an ocean so blue it seemed unreal.
Somewhere below me, doors opened and closed.
Men spoke in quiet voices.
The yacht continued south as though nothing important had happened.
But something had.
Three weeks ago, Anthony had told me not to expect affection.
Now there were dresses in my size hanging in a wardrobe he had prepared in advance.
There was an island waiting for us.
And there was a honeymoon he had apparently planned before telling me he wanted one.
By noon, I was tired of being confused.
I found Mark standing near the stern, speaking with the captain.
He excused himself when he saw me.
“Mrs.
Russell.”
“Please call me Sophie.”
A faint smile appeared.
“I’ve been instructed not to.”
“Of course you have.”
That made him laugh.
Mark was perhaps ten years older than me, broad-shouldered and perpetually composed, but unlike most of Anthony’s employees, he never seemed interested in making me nervous.
I lowered my voice.
“How long has this trip been planned?”
Mark’s expression changed immediately.
“That sounds like a question for your husband.”
“That means longer than yesterday.”
He looked toward the stairs.
I followed his gaze.
Anthony wasn’t there.
“Three weeks?”
I guessed.
Mark said nothing.
“Before the wedding?”
Still nothing.
My stomach tightened.
“Mark.”
He sighed.
“I really do enjoy having a job.”
Despite myself, I smiled.
“So it was before the wedding.”
“I did not say that.”
“You practically shouted it.”
“I did no such thing.”
He started walking away.
I followed him.
“Did Anthony choose the clothes?”
Mark stopped.
For the first time, genuine amusement entered his face.
“Absolutely not.”
Relief came unexpectedly.
“Thank goodness.”
“Mrs.
Russell, Mr.
Russell can negotiate a shipping contract across three countries without looking at a note, but if you asked him to distinguish between silk and satin, we might be here until Christmas.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
The sound felt strange.
I had laughed very little since marrying Anthony.
“Then who chose them?”
“Someone named Elena.”
“Elena?”
Mark immediately looked as if he had said too much.
Before I could question him, Anthony’s voice came from behind us.
“Mark.”
One word.
Nothing threatening about it.
Still, Mark straightened.
“I was just leaving.”
He disappeared toward the bridge.
Anthony stood several feet away wearing a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms.
Without the dark suits he favored in Manhattan, he looked younger.
Less like the man newspapers whispered about.
More like someone I might once have noticed across a crowded restaurant.
I folded my arms.
“Who is Elena?”
Anthony studied me.
“You’ve been interrogating my employees.”
“I asked one question.”
“You asked six.”
“You were listening?”
“I was walking toward you.”
I waited.
He finally sighed.
“Elena manages the house on Bellhaven.”
“The island?”
“Yes.”
“She knows my measurements?”
“No.”
“Then somebody does.”
Anthony glanced toward the horizon.
“Your sister.”
For several seconds, I genuinely thought I had misunderstood him.
“My sister?”
“Claire helped Elena.”
My mouth fell open.
“You spoke to Claire?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Several times.”
Claire had not mentioned this once.
Not while helping me move into Anthony’s penthouse.
Not while calling me almost every night.
Not while pretending to know absolutely nothing about my new husband.
“What exactly have you been discussing with my sister?”
“Mostly whether you prefer blue or green.”
I stared at him.
He almost smiled.
“And apparently you refuse to wear yellow.”
“I do not refuse.”
“Claire used the word despise.”
“That is more accurate.”
His mouth actually curved.
The moment was so ordinary that it disarmed me more effectively than any grand apology could have.
Then I remembered why we were having this conversation.
“You planned this before yesterday.”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Before the wedding.”
My heart sank.
“Why?”
Anthony moved toward the railing.
For several seconds, he watched the sea.
“I wanted somewhere we could speak without interruptions.”
“We had an entire penthouse.”
“My phone rings approximately seventy times a day in Manhattan.”
“You could turn it off.”
“You clearly do not understand my family.”
There was a dry humor in his voice.
I moved closer.
“You could have told me.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you?”
His fingers tightened around the railing.
“Because I wasn’t certain you would come.”
That answer surprised me.
“Anthony, you ordered me to pack.”
“I am aware that my execution was poor.”
“Poor?”
“Very poor.”
“At least we agree on something.”
He looked at me then.
For once, his expression wasn’t controlled.
It was almost embarrassed.
“I am not particularly experienced at asking people for things I cannot purchase or negotiate.”
“And what exactly are you asking from me?”
“Two weeks.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“No.”
He turned toward me fully.
“Two weeks in which you allow me to explain why I married you.”
The wind seemed suddenly louder.
“You married me because of my father’s debt.”
“No.”
My breath stopped.
Anthony’s eyes stayed on mine.
“That is why you married me,” he said quietly.
“It was never why I married you.”
Before I could respond, someone called his name from inside.
Anthony closed his eyes briefly.
Then he looked at me.
“We arrive tomorrow morning.”
“You can’t say something like that and walk away.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t.”
His hesitation lasted only a moment.
“Tonight,” he said.
“Dinner.
No phones.
No employees.
No business.”
“And answers?”
“As many as I can give.”
It was not enough.
But it was the first promise Anthony had made me that sounded personal.
So I nodded.
That evening, dinner was served on the smaller aft deck.
No staff remained after placing the food.
No phone appeared beside Anthony’s plate.
The sun lowered toward the horizon, painting the water copper and gold.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Finally, I put down my fork.
“Start with my father.”
Anthony leaned back.
“Your father borrowed money from companies connected to mine.”
“I know.”
“What you don’t know is that six months before he died, he attempted to repay almost all of it.”
I stared at him.
“That’s impossible.”
“I have records.”
“With what money?”
“That is one of the questions I wanted answered.”
My father had died two years earlier after a sudden heart attack.
He had left behind an accounting business drowning in obligations and a mountain of loans I had spent months trying to understand.
I had assumed desperation had driven him into debt.
Anthony continued.
“The money disappeared between your father’s bank and the company that was supposed to receive it.”
“Someone stole it?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Then why was the debt still assigned to us?”
“Because on paper, the payment never arrived.”
A chill moved over my skin despite the warm evening.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because when I discovered the transfer, I had known you less than a week.”
“Yet you married me.”
“Yes.”
“That makes even less sense.”
Anthony looked down at his untouched dinner.
“My father knew yours.”
I stared at him again.
“What?”
“Not well.
At least, that’s what I believed.”
“My father never mentioned the Russells.”
“That does not surprise me.”
“Why?”
Anthony reached into the inside pocket of the light jacket hanging over his chair.
He placed an old photograph on the table.
I picked it up.
Four people stood outside a small seaside restaurant.
One was unmistakably my father, decades younger, smiling broadly.
Beside him stood a man I recognized from photographs in Anthony’s study.
Anthony’s father.
Between them were two women.
One was my mother.
The other looked enough like Anthony that I knew immediately who she must be.
His mother.
My fingers trembled slightly.
“When was this taken?”
“Twenty-eight years ago.”
May you like
“Where?”
“Antigua.”
Related Stories
