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."

Claire's POV

Jason's words lit a fire in my dead heart. It clawed its way up from somewhere deep inside me and exploded before I could even think.

I raised my hand and slapped him. "You heartless asshole!"

The force of it left my palm stinging and numb.

"Jason! Ayla is dead! You killed your own daughter!" My voice broke as I shouted, my lungs burning from the effort.

Then I froze.

I hadn't hit Jason. I'd hit Vera.

She staggered back a step, her eyes wide like she hadn't expected me actually to fight back.

Her voice started to tremble, all soft and fake.

"Claire, I only said those things because I blamed Ayla for taking my child's chance at life. I just wanted to scare her a little. I never meant to kill her!"

Jason stormed toward me and, without warning, clamped a hand around my throat.

"You really think I'm buying this pathetic performance?" he spat. "There weren't any real bullets in the gun. Vera just wanted to scare her a little—to soothe her son's soul up in heaven."

His face twisted in rage like he was actually offended I'd dared accuse him of something so 'unfair.'

"You're just using your daughter's death as an excuse to crawl back to me. You want my attention? Is that it?"

Jason sneered, his eyes scanning me as if I had disgusted him. "You do realize how old you are now, right?"

Every cruel word just made him more certain he was right. Any flicker of guilt he might've had was gone, wiped away by his arrogance.

"Tie her up," Jason ordered coldly. "Hang her off the back of the cruise ship. Let her clear her head."

They didn't hesitate.

I was bound up with no care or kindness, just rope and brute force.

Then they threw me into the ocean like garbage.

The cold hit me like a thousand needles stabbing into every inch of my body. My lungs seized.

Waves crashed over me, one after another, slamming me against the current, tossing me like I didn't matter.

I clenched my teeth, trying to keep my mouth closed, but the salty, rancid water forced its way in anyway.

And yet, of all things, my mind wandered.

I recalled my first attempt at learning to swim. I panicked, inhaled water, and nearly drowned in a shallow pool. Jason was terrified—his eyes were red as he picked me up and swore he'd never let me return to the water.

All those beautiful moments were just seafoam.

Here for a second, gone the next.

That man, the one who used to hold me close, who called me his everything...

He was gone.

Now, he'd sacrificed our daughter to please his mistress.

And when I slapped Vera, he tied me up and dragged me like some showpiece to humiliate me for her amusement.

The cold was crawling deeper now into my bones. My body stopped shaking. I could barely feel anything at all.

Right before I lost consciousness, someone yanked me out of the water.

A staff member.

They wrapped me in a towel and handed me a cup of hot water.

"Mr. Robinson is setting off fireworks tonight. To celebrate his love for Miss Vera Leigh," he said.

My chest stayed still.

I felt nothing.

If Jason dropped dead right then and there, I might've smiled.

With a new copy of the divorce agreement printed, I handed it to a crew member and asked them to deliver it to Jason.

But before he could even sign it, they dragged me out again and hung me off the back of the ship.

By the time I got back to my cabin, my limbs felt like lead. My hands shook, but I forced myself to speak out loud like Ayla was still there.

"Ayla, I'm sorry I got back so late, baby. You're not mad at me, right?"

"Ayla, I heard what you said. Once he signs the papers, I'll get off at the next port. We'll go home together."

I reached out to the center of the bed, half-expecting her warmth, the familiar shape of her tiny body curled up beneath the covers.

But all I felt was cold, flat emptiness.

My heart dropped into my stomach.

I tore through the room, opened drawers, yanked open the closet, and crawled under the bed.

She wasn't there.

I ran to the nearest staff member and demanded to see the cruise manager.

He showed up quickly, glancing around like he was afraid even to meet my eyes.

When he finally spoke, his voice was a nervous whisper, "Mrs. Robinson, Miss Vera just had someone take your daughter's body. She said... she's selling the organs to buy handbags."

My whole body went still.

"I tried calling you, but your phone was off," he added quickly. "And no one could find you."

Of course, they couldn't.

I was hanging off the back of the damn ship strung up there by the man who was supposed to love me.

I never thought Vera would go this far.

I never thought she wouldn't even spare a corpse.

The manager left, probably too cowardly to say anything else.

And I stood alone in that room, surrounded by silence that somehow rang louder than screams.

The thought of Ayla being dissected, cut into pieces, and sold off like merchandise made my stomach twist violently.

Then came a voice.

"Well, well... isn't this our dear Claire?"

Vera strolled in like she owned the place like she hadn't just destroyed what little was left of my world.

She walked straight up to me and softly took my hand, placing it on the smooth leather of a designer handbag.

The kind Ayla would've thought looked like candy.

Her voice was soft, almost sweet. But her words were knives.

"Ayla was really worth a lot, you know. Thanks to her, I finally paid off this limited-edition bag."

She tilted her head at me as if she was curious how far she could twist the knife.

"This is all your fault, Claire," Vera said, all airy and light. "You refused to get a divorce. You let yourself go and clung to Jason like a parasite. You even used your child to try to keep him."

Her smile widened. "So I had no choice but to send her to die. She was in my way, standing between me and my future. Between me and the wealth I deserve."

Claire's POV

Vera's words sliced through me like a knife, cutting so deep I could barely tell where the pain ended, and I began.

What was left to fear anymore?

Right then, a sharp, coppery taste filled my mouth. I coughed, and blood spilled over my lips, hot and bitter. Strangely, it made me feel lighter, like something had broken loose inside me. Maybe it was strength, or perhaps it was madness. Either way, I didn't hesitate.

I lunged at her.

Fists, nails, teeth—anything I could use to hurt her, I used it.

Her shrieks echoed through the room, shrill and panicked, and for the first time, I felt a shred of relief.

"Give Ayla back to me! Give her back!"

"Vera!"

Jason rushed in, panicked. Without hesitation, he slapped me.

On cue, Vera stumbled back into his arms, whimpering with perfectly-timed tears, "Jason... I was just worried about Claire and came to check on her. But she tried to kill me!"

Disoriented, I staggered blindly, reaching out in the dark for anything solid to hold onto.

The butler quickly caught me and helped me stand.

"Take me to see Ayla," I said hoarsely. "I'll give you anything you want. Please."

That was when Jason finally noticed something was off.

He looked at me more closely. A flicker of confusion crossed his face.

I couldn't see him. I was blind.

And the thought clearly unsettled him.

Why had Claire suddenly gone blind?

And more importantly, where the hell was Ayla?

Vera let out a breathy laugh. "Jason, surely Claire's not dragging out that whole 'Ayla is dead' story again? I literally just saw her running around on the deck earlier."

Jason latched onto her lie like it was a life raft. He shook his head, dismissing the thought before it could grow roots.

With a tight frown, he pulled out the divorce agreement, scribbled his name across it in angry strokes, and threw it at me.

"Go ahead. Keep putting on this little act. I've never seen a more pathetic excuse for a mother screaming about Ayla being dead. Don't you think you might actually kill her?"

He sneered. "You don't deserve to be my wife, Claire."

And then Jason turned and walked away, arm-in-arm with Vera.

...

Later that evening, I made a call.

I handled everything related to the company and made some final arrangements. Then I gave the butler everything I had on me—cash, jewelry, every last valuable thing.

In exchange, he handed me a small urn.

With the divorce papers in one hand and Ayla's ashes in the other, I made my way up to the deck alone.

The sun had dipped below the horizon. Fireworks were already starting to bloom in the sky above—bright colors exploding over the dark water.

On the other hand, Jason was somewhere behind me, throwing a grand party on the ship, pretending like his life was still whole.

The deck around me was empty now.

I stepped to the railing, the ocean stretching out forever in every direction.

"Ayla, baby, Mommy's sorry. I couldn't take you home."

I clutched the urn close to my chest.

"In the next life, I still want to be your mom. No matter what."

The sky flashed with light, glittering and loud like the world was celebrating something.

I wrapped my arms tighter around Ayla and stepped over the edge.

The sea welcomed me.

'Jason, I don't ever want to see your face again—not in this life, and not in the next.'