Chapter 3

How ironic—water.

This isn't even the first time my life has been tangled up with water.

Memories flood back, dragging me to that summer seven years ago.

Back then, I worked part-time as a lifeguard on the beach. The waves were rough that day, and a handsome man got caught in a rip current. All you could see was a tiny black dot bobbing in the surf.

No one dared go after him—except me.

I dove in and fought to drag him back to shore, gave him CPR until he finally coughed up a mouthful of salty ocean water and opened his deep brown eyes.

That was Eric.

Three years later, we met again by chance. In a sea of strangers, he recognized me instantly.

He started chasing me like a man possessed—filling my apartment with roses, taking me to fancy restaurants, holding my hand even when I tried to pull away. He told me my past didn't matter, that I was a miracle sent by heaven, the light of his life.

For someone who grew up in foster care, who never knew what it was like to be truly chosen, how could I resist?

I fell. I really thought I'd finally found a home.

But that dream shattered the moment I put on my wedding dress.

Just as the minister was about to speak the vows, Eric's butler rushed up to the altar and whispered something in his ear. Eric's face went pale. He tossed out, "Wendy's back from overseas—she's upset at the airport," and ran out, leaving me and a church full of guests behind.

That night, he brought Wendy home to our new house.

"Wendy's not well, and she just got back. She has nowhere else to go. She'll stay here for now," he told me.

That same night, while Eric was in the shower, Wendy knocked on the master bedroom door.

"Chloe, I'm so sorry for ruining your wedding. This is my gift for you—I hope you're not mad." She handed me a gift box.

Just as I reached for it, she suddenly threw it to the floor, then slapped herself—hard.

Her cheek swelled up bright red in seconds.

She screamed, collapsed onto the floor, and started sobbing, clutching her face.

The bathroom door flew open. Eric rushed out, towel around his waist.

What he saw was Wendy crying on the floor and me standing there, stunned.

"What happened?!" He ran to pick Wendy up.

Wendy, sobbing, buried her face in his chest. "Eric, please don't blame Chloe. It's my fault—I shouldn't have come back and ruined everything..."

Eric looked at me, all that tenderness gone, replaced by a cold, bone-deep disgust.

"Chloe, are you out of your mind?"

"I didn't hit her! She—she did it herself!" I tried to explain.

"Enough!" Eric roared. "Wendy grew up with me. She's like a sister. How could you be so cruel, picking on a helpless girl?"

From that day on, nothing I did was right. Everything Wendy said was gospel.

The man who once called me his savior became my judge and jury.

The memories faded like smoke, and I was back in the present, staring at Eric's cold, impatient face.

"These useless idiots. How can it take this long to find one person?"

He glanced at his watch, finally losing the last shred of patience.

He stood up, striding toward the door. "Wendy, grab a coat. Come with me. I want to see what kind of stunt she's pulling. Once we catch her, I won't go easy."

Wendy obediently followed, a sly smile curling on her lips where he couldn't see.

I drifted after them.

All the guards and house staff had gathered at the lake, but no one spoke.

Dozens of people stood at the water's edge, silent as the grave, the roar of the water pump echoing across the night.

"Who told you to drain the lake? I said find her!" Eric barked, annoyed.

No one answered.

The crowd parted, heads bowed, bodies trembling.

Herman, the old butler, stood at the front, his back to Eric.

He looked ten years older in that moment, stiff as a statue.

"Herman! Are you all just wasting my time?" Eric snapped.

"Sir..."

Herman turned around, face as white as paper, lips trembling so badly he could barely speak.

He stepped aside, revealing what lay behind him.

"Please... take a look yourself."

Eric's gaze followed the butler's, landing on the now-drained lakebed.

His pupils shrank to pinpoints.

The crate was there, lying on its side in the mud. The broken buoy hadn't let it drift away—it got wedged in the rocks at the bottom.

The metal door was still locked, no sign it had ever been opened.

And inside the crate, curled up and pale as death, was my body.

I was still frozen in that last, desperate pose—arms stretched through the bars, as if reaching for something to save me, or maybe just trying to shield my stomach.

The same hands that once tore through waves to save him were now raw and bloody, crushed against the cold, unyielding bars.