Olivia’s POV
The montary fall let glance back.
He was maybe thirty feet behind , moving at an easy jog, the knife glinting in his hand. He wasn’t even trying to catch yet. He was playing with . Drawing it out.
Terror gave a fresh burst of speed.
I hit the waterline, the cold ocean washing over my feet, soaking my leggings up to my calves.
I kept going.
Into deeper water. Up to my knees. Up to my thighs.
The waves pushed against , trying to knock off balance, but I pushed back, wading deeper.
"What are you doing?" the man called out, and he sounded genuinely curious now. "You planning to swim away? I absolutely love it!"
The water was up to my waist now. Then my chest.
It was freezing - the kind of cold that steals your breath and makes your muscles seize up.
But I’d rather drown than let him catch . Rather let the ocean take than give him the satisfaction of using that knife.
I started swimming, my strokes sloppy and panicked, my waterlogged clothes weighing down.
"You’re going to drown out there!" he shouted, and I could hear splashing behind . He was in the water too, following . "Co back here and let kill you properly! At least you’ll have a corpse that way! Your family can have a funeral!"
I kept swimming, pushing through the waves, tasting salt water every ti one crashed over my head.
My arms were getting tired. Heavy. The cold was seeping into my bones, making every movent harder.
But I couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop.
And then, in that mont - suspended between life and death, between the push of the waves and the pull of exhaustion - my mind flashed back to Japan.
To that day in the pool.
To , pretending to drown, thrashing dramatically in the water to get Maxwell’s attention.
To his face when Kennedy had pulled out. The way he’d looked at with those burning sexy green eyes.
The mory was so vivid, so absurdly out of place in this mont of genuine terror, that I actually laughed.
A sharp, hysterical laughter that turned into a cough as water went down my throat.
I was going to die out here.
I was going to drown in the ocean, or get caught by a madman with a knife, and I’d never see Maxwell again.
Never get to tell him that despite everything - despite the lies and the manipulation and the gas - I had fallen in love with him anyway.
All the versions of him.
The crazy love doctor who’d given the best advice in his office that first day.
The cruel boss who always acted cold, aloft and arrogant.
And the sweet mysterious stranger who showed up at unexpected places and showered with love and gifts.
I loved him.
God help , I loved Maxwell Wellington.
And I was going to die without ever telling him.
Another wave crashed over my head, and this ti I went under.
The cold water closed over , dark and suffocating, pulling down.
My lungs burned. My legs kicked weakly. My arms felt like lead.
I broke the surface, gasping, coughing, trying to keep my head above water.
But I was so tired.
So cold.
So far from shore.
"Having trouble out there?" the man’s voice called, and he sounded closer. Much closer. "Don’t worry! I’m coming to help! We’ll sink to the bottom together! How romantic!"
No.
No, I couldn’t let him catch .
Couldn’t let him touch .
I tried to swim farther out, but my body wouldn’t cooperate anymore.
My strokes were getting weaker. Slower.
The shore seed impossibly far away now, the lights of the beach house tiny pinpricks in the distance.
I went under again.
This ti, when I tried to surface, I couldn’t find it.
Couldn’t tell which way was up.
The water was everywhere, pressing in from all sides, filling my nose and mouth and lungs.
This was it.
This was how I died.
Not at the hands of a madman with a knife, but drowning in the ocean, just like I’d pretended to do to make Maxwell jealous.
The irony would be funny if I had any breath left to laugh.
My vision started to dim at the edges.
My limbs stopped moving.
And the last thought I had before the darkness took was of Maxwell’s face - those intense eyes, that rare smile, the way he watches .
I’m sorry, I thought. I’m sorry I never got to tell you the truth.
Then the ocean pulled under, and everything went black.
Maxwell’s POV
The rain started just as I turned onto the coastal road that led to the beach house.
At first it was just a drizzle, light drops pattering against my windshield. But within minutes, it had escalated into a full downpour - the kind of storm that made driving treacherous, where even with the wipers on full speed, I could barely see the road ahead.
I should have pulled over. Waited it out.
But I couldn’t. Not when Olivia was so close. Not when this might be my last chance to make things right.
I gripped the steering wheel tighter and pushed forward, my headlights cutting weak beams through the sheets of rain.
The address Mrs. Hopton had given led to a small coastal road lined with beach houses - most of them dark, clearly unoccupied in the off-season.
I counted the house numbers as I passed, squinting through the rain: 247... 249... 251...
There. 253.
The beach house looked exactly like Mr. Hopton had described it - white clapboard siding, blue shutters, a wraparound porch. Warm light glowed from the windows, a beacon in the storm.
She was here.
Relief and anxiety warred in my chest as I pulled into the driveway and killed the engine.
The rain hamred on the roof of my car, so loud it was almost deafening. Through the windshield, everything was a blur of water and darkness.
I took a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart, trying to organize the thousand things I wanted to say to her.
I’m sorry. I love you. Please give another chance. Please don’t abort our baby. Please don’t walk away from what we could be.
The words felt inadequate. Felt like too little, too late.
But they were all I had.
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