He Pushed Me Off the Yacht, I Surfaced Owning The Fleet

I don't scream. I'm a captain — I count the seconds, I read the water, I know to the minute how long it takes a boat to come about for a man overboard.

So when my husband's hand puts me off the stern on our anniversary and my best friend of nineteen years laughs while the lights pull away, I clock that the Durren never turns around. They think I drown out there. I let them.

Because Kip's name is on the brochures, but every deed, every hull, every slip belongs to Ludlow — and Ludlow is me. The affair is the small crime. The forged transfer, the policy on my life, the sale that needed me dead to close — that's the felony.

A trawler captain named Ashton French hauls me out of the black, hands me the one thing that proves Kip never tried to save me, and flatly refuses to bring my ship in for me.

Three weeks from now my husband is christening a new flagship over a memorial with my face on it. I'm going to walk in alive and let the paperwork do the rest.