Jason Robinson's mistress threw a dramatic tantrum, accusing my daughter, Ayla, of somehow stealing her child's chance at survival.

And just like that, the very next day, my seven-year-old daughter was forced to take Vera Leigh's, my husband's mistress, place in a twisted, stomach-churning game of Russian roulette.

I knelt on the ground, begging and pleading for them to spare my little girl.

But Jason just shrugged.

"Since Ayla's so lucky," he said, all casual, "what's the harm in letting Vera blow off a little steam? Maybe if she gets it out of her system, she'll stop fighting with me."

Hearing that, I stood there paralyzed, helpless, watching as Vera strutted up and coolly laid down a $100 million on the table like it was a damn poker game.

$1 million per shot. 100 shots in total.

And Lady Luck, bless her, stuck with Ayla for 36 rounds.

But on the 37th, her luck finally broke.

The chamber clicked. The bullet fired.

It went straight through her little head.

And Jason? He wasn't even there for it. He'd gotten bored after the seventh round and taken Vera to the bedroom.

I screamed, full-body, soul-ripping anguish. I screamed like something primal had been torn out of me.

Jason's moans from the other room grew louder as if my pain had turned him on.

When he finally came back out, sweaty and disheveled, his shirt half-open, Vera clinging to him like a smug little leech, he crouched beside me.

He reached out and patted my cheek like I was a child who'd just had a nightmare.

Then he smiled.

"You cry so realistically," he said. "That was intense. Don't worry, the gun wasn't even loaded. I just wanted to give Vera some closure."

——

Claire's POV

Back then, both Vera's son and Ayla had been hospitalized at the same time. Both were critically ill.

Ayla survived. Vera's son didn't.

Ever since then, Vera clung to this delusion, this obsessive lie that Ayla had somehow stolen her child's luck.

"If your daughter hadn't sucked up all the luck," she spat, "my son would still be alive!"

Jason never corrected her or defended Ayla.

Then, without any warning, the very next day, Ayla was dragged into another game of Russian roulette.

On a cruise ship, no less.

A child.

By the time I got there, it was already too late. Ayla was strapped to a spinning wheel, her little arms and legs stretched out in an X.

To make sure she couldn't escape, they had locked her wrists, her ankles, and her neck with heavy restraints.

When she saw me, her voice was already raw from crying.

"Mommy, save me! Mommy, Ayla's not a jinx!"

Her whole body was shaking. Ayla, who always cared about her hair and cute clothes, was now sobbing and gasping like the air itself was punishing her.

And her biological father? He was standing off to the side, arms folded across his chest, looking at her like she was a stranger.

Like she wasn't his own flesh and blood.

My heart shattered.

I tried to run to her, but his guards slammed me back, holding me like I was some hysterical criminal.

"Jason! Are you out of your goddamn mind?!" I screamed. "That's your daughter!"

I ripped myself free just long enough to grab his collar, screaming right into his smug, empty face.

But he shoved me off like I was nothing, then reached over and slipped his arm around Vera's waist.

"Claire," Jason said, his voice colder than I'd ever heard, "who told you to take Ayla to that hospital? Who told you to let her steal Vera's child's life? You and your daughter owe them both."

Then he turned to Vera, his voice soft like a lover's whisper.

"Vera, do whatever makes you happy today."

Vera smirked at me with that sick little glint in her eyes like she'd already won.

I just stood there, staring at Jason, the man I thought I'd built a life with.

That moment hit me harder than any slap because that's when I realized I never really knew him at all.

Right then, the cruise staff rolled out a tray casually, like this was just another show.

On it were a revolver and a stack of number cards.

Vera practically skipped over to the table, her eyes shining like she'd been handed her birthday present early.

"Claire probably doesn't know the rules, huh?" she said with a little giggle that made my skin crawl. "It's a twist on the classic Russian roulette. One bullet in the chamber. Each shot earns a million bucks. And there's no limit on how many times you can pull the trigger."

Happily, she giggled, "I wonder how much money Ayla's luck will make for Jason!"

She picked up the card marked '6' and kissed it like it was some kind of lucky charm.

A revolver holds only six bullets.

In a regular game, if the first five chambers are empty, the sixth is guaranteed to fire.

But nobody's luck lasts forever. Not even Ayla's.

I stood frozen, too numb to even cry. My eyes locked on Jason, silently begging him to stop this. To be a father.

But he wouldn't even look at me.

Then Vera leaned in close, purring like a satisfied cat.

"Claire, if you get down on your knees, slap your face, and shout 'I'm the mistress,' maybe I'll think about sparing your daughter."

Claire's POV

Vera stared at me with those icy, venomous eyes brimming with pure malice.

Jason remained silent, showing no concern. His silence gave Vera all the approval she required.

I turned toward my daughter, bound a few feet away, and dropped to my knees without even thinking.

Vera was unpredictable, and I was terrified she might twist her little game into something even worse. I couldn't risk her changing her mind or adding new conditions, so I did the only thing I could.

I slapped myself so hard that my cheek split open, and I tasted blood.

"I'm the mistress! I'm the mistress! I'm the mistress!" I shouted it over and over again, each word cutting deeper than the last.

But the sting on my face wasn't the worst of it.

No, what really stung were the judgmental, disgusted looks from everyone around—strangers, crew, guests.

They didn't voice anything, but I felt their judging eyes everywhere.

And in that twisted moment, Vera looked more like Jason's wife than I ever had.

She beamed, all sweet and smug like a cat that got into the cream.

"So even the great Claire Robinson can look this pathetic."

Then, like she was handing out some kind of gift, she turned to me and said, all airy and fake-casual, "Alright, I forgive you."

A tiny flicker of hope sparked in my chest.

But she crushed it just as quickly.

"I forgive you," she said, voice suddenly sharp, "but my son? He can't forgive Ayla."

She paused, smiling wider like she was about to announce the winner of a raffle.

"So... I bet $100 million!"

It felt like my soul plummeted from a mountaintop straight into the pits of hell.

$100 million. One hundred shots.

'My Ayla... my sweet, precious Ayla...'

The gunshot split the air like a lightning strike, yanking me back to reality.

I gasped, watching in horror as the man in black calmly raised his revolver and shot Ayla.

My daughter didn't scream or move. She was paralyzed with fear, too terrified even to cry.

"Jason! Vera! You monsters!" I cried out as I threw myself forward, trying to reach her.

But the guards tackled me, pinning me to the floor as if I were a dangerous animal.

Behind me, Vera let out a fake little sob and draped herself on Jason's chest like some delicate flower in need of shelter.

"Oh, Jason, baby! I'm so scared!" she whimpered.

Jason's face turned to stone. He took the revolver from the man and, without blinking, fired five more shots at our daughter.

"No! Ayla!!"

I trembled uncontrollably. My body felt like it didn't even belong to me anymore.

But somehow, by some miracle, Ayla was still alive.

The sixth shot hadn't been fired. It was a blank.

She was still breathing.

I gasped, clutching my chest as if I had to stop my heart from breaking in two. My eyes searched desperately for anything that could help me save my daughter.

And then, behind me, Vera giggled and kissed Jason's cheek, her hands all over him.

"Darling, you're amazing."

Jason's eyes glinted red in the dim light as he scooped her up with ease. He took a few slow steps, then stopped and turned his head just slightly.

"Let's finish all hundred shots," he said in a voice that sent chills down my spine. "I want to see just how lucky my daughter really is. Maybe she really is some monster who drains everyone else's luck."

Ayla heard him.

She realized it then as the light faded from her eyes.

She knew her father wanted her dead.

And even then, she looked at me and tried to smile. "Mommy, don't cry. Even if Ayla dies, you have to keep living, okay?"

She shut her eyes, ready for what was coming.

After Vera and Jason left, the execution continued.

The seventh shot.

The eighth.

The ninth.

Each one hit me like a hammer, but I couldn't look away.

If I even blinked, Ayla might think I'd given up on her, too.

On my knees, I bowed to them again and again, begging, offering anything I had left.

My pride. My money. My soul.

Eventually, bloodied and humiliated, I scraped together just enough pity to make one of them speak to me.

One of the cruise staff approached, his voice low and hesitant.

"Mrs. Robinson, the cruise has crossed into international waters. Unless Mr. Robinson gives the order, we're not allowed to release anyone. We can't risk feeding the sharks, either."

It was a slim chance, but at that point, Jason was the only hope I had.

'Ayla, baby, don't be afraid. I'm coming. I'll save you.'

Even though I could barely move, I dragged myself to the top-deck suite. By the time I reached the door, I could already hear the soft, breathy moans.

"You little minx," Jason growled from inside, his voice thick with lust.

My stomach turned.

While our daughter clung to life, strapped to a torture wheel, Jason was in bed with another woman.

I slammed my fists against the door over and over.

"Jason! I was wrong! I agree to the divorce! Just let Ayla go, please! She's going to die!"

Inside, the sounds stopped.

Claire's POV

Jason yelled, "What are you making such a fuss about?! Ayla wouldn't—"

I didn't catch the rest. All I could hear were the slick, obscene noises coming from the other side of the door.

"Jason, your wife really goes to great lengths just to see you," Vera cooed, her voice dripping with syrupy mockery. "She even agreed to a divorce."

Then she dropped her tone, turning sultry, like a cheap soap opera villain.

"But isn't this just thrilling? Your wife right outside the door... and your true love tangled up with you in bed."

And then the sound came—the slap of skin on skin.

Loud, rhythmic, sickening.

I threw myself against the door, pounding with both fists over and over.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Vera!" I shouted, my tears mixing with spit.

I didn't care anymore. I just needed them to stop.

But it didn't stop.

The louder I cried, the more noise they made.

As if my pain was fuel for their twisted little performance.

Eventually, I dragged myself back down to the lower deck. My body was shaking, and my heart was already in pieces.

One of the staff members caught my eye.

For just a moment, there was something in his gaze. Not pity, not really—but close.

"We're at 32 shots," he said quietly. "We've been stalling to buy time."

Everything in me froze.

Ayla had kept her eyes shut this whole time.

But the second she heard my footsteps, she opened them.

And even then, she smiled.

There were tears in her eyes, but her gaze was steady, calm in that way children sometimes are when they've already accepted something grown-ups never could.

"Mommy," she whispered, her voice trembling, "becoming your daughter was the luckiest thing in my whole life."

Then came the 33rd shot.

The sound of the trigger clicking echoed louder than thunder, followed by a sharp crack that made my ears ring.

Ayla didn't flinch.

"Mommy," she said again, "once I'm gone, you should divorce Daddy. I know you didn't want to sign because of me, but Daddy's really a bad man."

Another shot was fired.

Then another.

Thirty-four. Thirty-five.

"Ayla may only be seven," she murmured, "but these seven years were the happiest... because I had you."

Then came shot thirty-six.

Ayla turned her head a little. It was subtle, but I caught it.

She looked at the revolver.

The barrel had started to glow red from the repeated shots, hot with cruelty.

Her voice softened to something smaller than a whisper.

"Mommy, I want to go home."

"I love you."

"In the next life, I still want to be your daughter."

Then came the thirty-seventh shot.

And that was the one that ended everything.

The bullet tore through her head.

This time, Lady Luck turned away.

No screams came out of me.

I didn't fall. I didn't faint. I didn't even blink.

It was like my entire soul had packed up and left.

I felt... nothing.

My brain shut down. My body moved on its own.

When the nightmare finally ended, someone came and unstrapped her tiny body.

My vision darkened. The last thing I remember seeing was her blood—deep, vivid red spilling onto the cold floor like paint.

Ayla's body was small and still and far too quiet.

She would never call me 'Mommy' again.

The same little girl who once looked at me so seriously and said, 'If you get divorced, I'll always choose you, Mommy,' was gone.

The trauma was so sharp, so all-consuming, it stole my vision.

I have no idea how long I remained there or how I managed to return to the cabin, holding her small body in my arms as if she were asleep.

Inside, I gently wiped her clean, took off the restraints, and dressed her in fresh clothes.

She always loved to look clean and pretty.

I couldn't touch her head. I didn't have it in me.

So I just held her, holding her tight against me like I could keep her warm.

And I sat there with her.

For a long, long time.

Eventually, something in my mind clicked into place.

I whispered under my breath, "Divorce... go home... we're going home."

I couldn't even remember where I left my phone, so I asked a staff member to help me print a divorce agreement.

I ran my fingers slowly over the thin sheets of paper.

And at that moment, everything became clear.

It was because I wouldn't sign.

Because I wanted Ayla to grow up in a complete family.

That's why she died.

Now I had to take her home.

I wanted nothing more to do with that filthy man.

'As for revenge...' I bowed my head, deep in thought.

Then, a staff member led me to Jason's suite.

The door swung open right as we reached it.

A thick, overpowering scent spilled out—sickeningly sweet like osmanthus perfume layered over sweat and sin.

Everyone near the door instinctively stepped back.

Even without my sight, I could picture the scene inside as clear as day.

Jason's voice floated out from the room, lazy and self-satisfied.

"You cried so realistically last night. That was intense. Don't worry, the gun wasn't even loaded. I just wanted to give Vera some closure."