Chapter 6

Marvin’s POV

The first thing I felt was the fire.

It burned down my throat, a scorching, relentless agony that made every breath feel like swallowing crushed glass. I tried to swallow, but my mouth was stuffed with dry cotton.

I peeled my eyes open. Blinding, sterile white light stabbed into my retinas.

I groaned, squeezing my eyes shut. The steady, rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor echoed in the agonizing silence of the room.

Where was I?

The yacht. The whiskey. Denise smiling that cold, dead smile.

No. No, that was impossible. That was a nightmare. A hallucination brought on by stress. Denise was a fragile, broken little bird. She was terrified of her own shadow. She didn't have the spine to poison me. She didn't have the brains to outsmart me.

I forced my eyes open again, blinking rapidly until the blurry shapes sharpened into focus.

White walls. A drop ceiling. The sharp, chemical smell of bleach and rubbing alcohol. A hospital room.

"Denise," I croaked.

My voice sounded like dry leaves crushing under heavy boots. I tried to sit up. I needed to find my wife. I needed to find my son. I needed to make sure the inheritance papers were signed.

I angrily yanked my right arm forward.

It didn't move even a single inch.

A sharp, heavy metallic clink echoed in the quiet room.

Cold panic seized my chest. I looked down at my wrist. A heavy steel handcuff bit into my skin, securing my arm tightly to the metal bed rail.

"What the hell?" I gasped, pulling harder. The metal dug into my bone. "Hey! Somebody get in here!"

I was Marvin. I was a man of power. I commanded respect. I did not get chained to hospital beds like a common criminal. I controlled everything. I controlled Denise. I had spent months meticulously breaking her mind into tiny, jagged pieces. I was the master of our reality.

"Denise!" I roared, the effort tearing at my raw throat. "Denise, get in here right now!"

The heavy wooden door clicked open.

It wasn't my wife.

A tall, broad-shouldered man walked into the room. He wore a cheap, wrinkled suit and a face carved from absolute stone. His eyes were dark, flat, and completely devoid of sympathy. He didn't look like a doctor. He looked like a predator.

He closed the door behind him, locking it with a sharp click.

"Mr. Sterling," the man said, his voice a low, gravelly monotone. "I am Detective Russo."

"Where is my wife?" I demanded, my chest heaving. "Where is Denise? Unchain me this instant. Do you have any idea who I am? I will have your badge for this!"

Detective Russo didn't flinch. He walked slowly to the foot of my bed, pulling a small notepad from his breast pocket.

"You are in no position to make threats, Mr. Sterling," Russo said coldly. "You are currently under police guard. And you are the prime suspect in a very disturbing investigation."

"Suspect?" I spat, gripping the bed rail with my free hand. "I was poisoned! My wife... someone tried to kill me!"

"Is that so?" Russo flipped open his notepad. "Because the toxicology report tells a very different story. We found massive quantities of illegal psychotropic drugs in your bloodstream. The kind used to induce severe paranoia and hallucinations. The kind that are highly illegal to possess."

My blood ran ice cold.

The drugs. The pills I had been slipping into Denise's chamomile tea. How did they get into my system?

I don't think I will.

Denise's voice echoed in my head. Her terrifyingly steady voice. The glass of milk untouched on the table.

She knew. She had known the whole time.

"It was a setup," I stammered, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "She poisoned me. She crushed those pills and put them in my whiskey. You have to arrest her!"

Russo stared at me, his expression entirely blank. "Arrest her? Mr. Sterling, we can't even find her."

The room spun. "What do you mean you can't find her?"

"The Coast Guard found your rented luxury yacht anchored three miles offshore," Russo explained, his eyes narrowing into dark slits. "It was completely abandoned. The VIP cabin doors were shattered. There were signs of a massive struggle. But there was no sign of your wife, Denise. There was no sign of your three-year-old son, James. And there was no sign of your Louise, who was also reported to be on board."

"No," I whispered, the horrifying reality crashing down on me.

"You were found unconscious on the floor, foaming at the mouth," Russo continued relentlessly. "No crew. No family. Just you, a shattered whiskey glass, and enough illegal narcotics in your blood to kill a horse."

"She did this!" I screamed, thrashing against the steel handcuff. "She planned this! She took my son!"

"Save the performance, Mr. Sterling," Russo snapped, slamming his notepad shut. "Men like you always blame the wife. We know about the massive debts you owe. We know you were desperate. We believe you took your family out to that yacht, drugged yourself to create an alibi, and did something unspeakable to them."

"You're insane!" I roared. "I didn't touch them! I am the victim here!"

"You are under arrest for the suspected murder and disappearance of Denise and James Sterling," Russo said, his voice devoid of any emotion. "Once you are medically cleared, you will be transferred to a maximum-security holding cell. I suggest you get a very good lawyer."

Russo turned on his heel and walked out of the room. The heavy door slammed shut, the lock clicking loudly into place.

"Come back here!" I screamed at the empty room. "She set me up! Denise!"

I yanked violently at the handcuff, ignoring the blood trickling down my wrist. I was trapped. My empire was gone. My inheritance was gone. My perfect, fragile wife had played me for an absolute fool.

The door clicked open again.

I stopped thrashing, panting heavily.

A nurse walked in. She wore pale blue scrubs and a white surgical mask that covered the lower half of her face. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a tight bun. She didn't look at me. She kept her eyes glued to the floor as she walked over to the IV pole standing next to my bed.

"Get me a phone," I ordered, my voice trembling with rage. "I need to call my attorney. Right now."

The nurse didn't answer. She reached up, her gloved hands expertly adjusting the drip rate on my IV bag.

"Did you hear me?" I snapped. "Are you deaf?"

She finished adjusting the valve. Then, she slowly turned her head and looked down at me.

Her eyes were a striking, icy blue. They were cold, calculating, and utterly terrifying.

She leaned down, bringing her face inches from mine.

"Derek Vance says hello," she whispered in a crisp, flawless British accent.

My heart stopped.