I looked at my boyfriend, Ethan. He adjusted his sunglasses… and said nothing.
“I think I’ll make a call,” I said quietly, pulling out my phone.
His father scoffed. “Calling who? You think help gets service up here? I practically own this yacht.”
“Not exactly,” I replied calmly, eyes still on my screen. “You leased it through Crestline Bank. Balloon loan. Variable interest. And you’ve missed three payments.”
He froze.
“Stop talking,” his mother snapped, shoving me hard.
I stumbled, my heel catching on the edge of the deck. For a split second, I almost went overboard. I grabbed the railing just in time, my heart racing.
Ethan saw everything.
He sighed. “Maybe just go downstairs… you’re upsetting my mom.”
That’s when it hit me—not heartbreak, but clarity. The kind that comes when you finally cut off a bad investment.
I glanced at my phone. The acquisition had just gone through.
The bank they owed everything to?
Mine.
I lifted my gaze, meeting their confused expressions.
“You wanted me to know my place?” I said softly. “Alright.”
Before I could say another word, a loud siren tore across the water.
Everyone turned.
A police boat sped toward us, lights flashing. Behind it, a black security vessel pulled up alongside the yacht. Within seconds, officers and men in suits boarded with precision.
“What is this?!” his father shouted.
A tall man stepped forward, holding a leather folder and a megaphone.
He didn’t look at them.
He looked at me.
“Ms. Carter,” he said clearly, his voice carrying across the deck. “The foreclosure documents are ready for your signature.”
Silence.
