The staff scrambled. Radios went off. Spotlights swung out from the yacht’s frame to scan the water. I didn’t move. I stood where I was, alone at the railing, fingers still clenched around the velvet box.
Below, I heard coughing. Splashing. Her name, echoing again and again.
“I told you she was jealous,” someone whispered.
“She always hated Margaret. This time she pushed her too far.”
“She should be ashamed. What kind of woman ruins her own anniversary?”
I didn’t flinch. I stared down at the water. But all I could see were the silver glints of that hairpin, glinting under the moonlight.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t speak. Because at that moment, I realized something: she didn’t fall. She performed.
And he jumped to save the show.
But me? I was done playing as their audience.
---
Hakeem climbed back onto the yacht, soaked to the bone, Margaret in his arms like she was made of glass. Her head lolled, limbs limp. He laid her down on the deck and immediately started CPR. Chest compressions. Mouth-to-mouth. His hands shook as he pushed, breath catching on her name.
“Margaret,” he whispered, over and over. “Stay with me. Breathe. Please, baby—”