Page 3 of Lana Pecherczyk

Oh, hell no.

“What the actual fuck?” She gasped. “I’m crying because I have feelings. How dare you make that out to be a bad thing!” She hastily wiped her nose. “And me voice hasalwayssounded like this! You expect me to change me tone just to make you feel better? Is that what’s really going on here? You hate feelings because they don’t make you Boss Man material?” She pointed at the boat and shook her head. “ It’s obviously yours. There’s no use denying it.”

“Who said I’m denying it?” Jeff sneered.

“B-but…” She floundered and reached for proof. “I asked you once, and you said the new company hired it.”

“You think you’re so smart because of your photographic memory? You just sound like an uneducated parrot.”

“Nothing I just said has to do with me photographic memory.” After all these years, he still didn’t understand how that worked?

“It’smymemory,” he corrected. “Notmememory.”

A burst of laughter drifted from the yacht. A woman, also in a beige suit, whispered behind her hand to another well-dressed man. Blake recognized her as Jeff’s new producer, who always called Blake “sweetie” with a condescending smile. He’d taken the sports reporting job after an injury forced him into early retirement.

The realization hit like a punch to the gut. Jeff had traded up—in his eyes, at least. With good looks, an average career, and a great body, he’d always been a superstar. After his retirement, all those little quirks of his she used to find adorable grew sharper and a little cruel. She always suspected he was jealous of her growing social media influence while his celebrity faded.

Now she knew.

“Blake.” His voice softened slightly, the gentleness more painful than his earlier harshness. It said maybe he really did care for her. Once. “I want to spend my last moments alive with people who matter. People with depth. That’s not you, babe. It never was.”

Without a backward glance, her husband of fifteen years walked up the gangplank. He kicked it into the stormy river with a splash, and then directed a genuine smile at a group of veritable strangers. The yacht’s engines roared to life, drowning out the sound of corks popping from champagne bottles and glass tinkling.

At least she had her followers. She tilted her phone’s screen toward her face.

The battery was dead.

As the yacht sailed past, its wake lurched over the jetty and pelted her with icy river water, leaving her gasping in shock. Laughter erupted on board, but she refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

When the boat was out of earshot, she glanced down to assess the damage. The glittering sequins suddenly seemed garish and cheap. When she checked her shivering reflection, her carefully applied makeup now looked like a tear-stained child’s attempt at adulthood.

Was Jeff right? Was this the reality check she needed too late? Had her father sheltered her? Had she idolized her mother too much?Had Grace Hartley even been a beauty queen?

The sun broke through the clouds and landed on the distant yacht, bathing it with the warmth she desperately wanted. But the passengers laughed, and her world sailed away. All she was left with was a circling crow cawing at her misfortune.

“Fuck that.” Her breath clouded. “I’m not dead yet.”

She clutched her phone to her chest and hobbled back toward her car with jerky, shivering strides. She still had time to drive to her dad’s house. To get warm.

Never again would she fall for a nob jockey like Jeff. Never again would she give her heart, soul, and life to a man who couldn’t appreciate the talent it took to upcycle trash into treasure. Never again would she put her dreams behind his.

“I’m coming, Dad.” Her sob brought ice-cold razor blades into her lungs. “I still have”—another gasp—“two feet and a…”

Her numb hand pressed against her sternum, searching for a heartbeat.

Nothing.

A singular tear broke free and froze on her cheek.

Chapter

One

“This is so random,” Blake muttered as she staggered across sand. Heat from the glaring afternoon sun beat down on her face. Her sequined dress hung in tatters, but her bejeweled iPhone remained clutched in her hand, somewhat in one piece.

Keep walking. Keep moving.

Nausea swelled inside her, and she dropped to her knees, retching. Something black and viscous oozed from her throat, triggering another wave of heaving. What the hell had she swallowed? Where was she?