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The night Logan Young chose to let me drown, his hands were still tracing the curve of my hip from our earlier passion. His lips, which had just whispered fragmented endearments against my skin, formed my name—"Liana"—not as a plea, but as a cold, clinical identifier to the 911 operator. "My wife is in the water." I heard the distance in his tone even through the roar of the ocean filling my ears, my lungs. I had gambled everything on being his sanctuary, his partner. In the end, I was just another piece of driftwood in his storm, easily sacrificed when his true north—Olivia's terrified scream—pierced the night. The icy seawater engulfed Liana Wade instantly, the salty sting burning her nose and mouth, triggering violent coughs. She struggled, but her right foot was wedged tight in a jagged crevice among the rocks. "Help! Somebody help me!" "Mr. Young! Mrs. Young is drowning!" a household staff member yelled, rushing toward Logan Young on the shore. Logan's face tightened. He was about to dive in when a more desperate cry rang out from nearby. "Logan, save me! I'm terrified!" It was his foster sister, Olivia Chase. Submerged in the water, Liana's disbelief curdled into sharp betrayal. Logan, whom she expected would rescue her, executed a jarring, immediate pivot and sprinted, without a second thought, to another woman. It felt as though an invisible hand crushed her heart so fiercely she barely registered the pain. Lost in a thick, paralyzing haze, she couldn't summon the basic, desperate instinct to struggle. Had her husband truly abandoned her? Just as panic choked her, strong arms snatched her from the rocks' lethal grip and lifted her to the surface. Liana's eyes fluttered open in a hospital room, instantly assaulted by a skull-splitting headache. Every inch of her skin felt like it was alight, and her throat was so raw and desiccated it offered a terrifying premonition of combustion. A violent fever was clearly running its course. The room was empty, and
