Try to make me cry

Chapter 17: The Baptism of Salt

The air in Hawaii was no longer a tropical paradise; it felt like a pressurized chamber, thick with the scent of expensive hibiscus and the metallic tang of a storm brewing offshore. I stood on the sand, the hem of my black silk dress already damp, feeling the eyes of the elite bore into my back from the glass terrace above.

Up on the teak deck, the music didn't stop, but the laughter did. I could see them through the floor-to-ceiling glass—the Ho family, my sisters, the corporate vultures. They weren't horrified by my mother’s cruelty; they were fascinated by it.

“Did you see?” a cousin whispered loud enough for the wind to carry. “The Tyrant actually has tear ducts.”

“She’s probably just angry she didn't get the inheritance,” Bethany added, her voice dripping with artificial sympathy as she sipped her champagne.

They didn't see a daughter being disowned. They saw a high-stakes glitch in a perfect machine. To them, my pain was a performance, and they were waiting for the encore. They all believed the rumor—the one that defined my Tyrant title. Three years ago, a man who threatened my father's firm vanished. The world believed I had him dealt with. I let them believe it. Fear was the only currency that kept me safe from their greed. But tonight, the currency had devalued to zero.

Eddie’s laugh cut through my thoughts, cold and jagged. He wasn't the "God of War" defending his queen; he was the jailer mocking a prisoner who dared to rattle the bars.

“You think words like that will hurt her? Maggie?” Eddie’s voice was a whip, cracking over the sound of the surf. “Don't make me laugh. She’s made of ice and ambition. She doesn't feel insults; she calculates them.”

He turned to the onlookers, his posture rigid and commanding. “Go back to your drinks! My wife is simply having a moment of... dramatic flair.”

“What do you mean by saying she’s faking?” Edison’s voice exploded between us. He stepped forward, his grey suit a sharp contrast to Eddie’s dark linen. He looked like he wanted to burn the whole estate down. “You just heard them call her a sacrifice. You heard them tell her she was named after a dead mistress to spit in her face! And you call that flair?”

Edison was genuinely angry—the kind of hot, righteous anger that didn't exist in Veritas City. He looked at me, and for a second, I saw his surprise. He had expected the Wick and Frugal woman—the girl who was all sharp edges and no soul. Instead, he saw a woman about to shatter into a thousand pieces.

“Why are you acting like this?” Edison demanded of Eddie. “Your wife is breaking, and you’re treating it like a boardroom tactic!”

-

I looked at the two of them. The Husband who knew the truth and used it as a leash. The Stranger who knew the truth and used it as a shield.

“Look at the two of you,” I said. My voice was no longer a sob; it was a low, dangerous hum that made the guests on the balcony lean in closer. “Two good-looking men standing in the surf, arguing over the authenticity of my soul. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.”

I turned my gaze to the house—to my mother’s smug face and my father’s cowardice.

“Thanks to you, Edison, you’ve made the event peaceful for my family,” I drawled, the words tasting like copper. “You gave them a reason to stop looking at my mother’s madness and start looking at my 'infidelity.' You gave them exactly the drama they wanted.”

“Hunn,” I let out a dry, rattling breath.

Eddie stepped closer, his green eyes scanning me like a predator. “She is faking, Edison. She’s faking the cry so she can leave the event early, or something worse. She wants you to feel pity so she can move you like a chess piece. Don't be a fool.”

The Great Escape

The violation of his words was the final push. He didn't just want my body and my company; he wanted to own my reality.

“Is that what you think, Eddie?” I whispered. I reached up and wiped the lone tear from my face, smearing the dark mascara across my cheekbone like war paint. “You think I’m an actress? Fine. Let’s see how you handle the final act.”

I turned away from both of them. I didn't run. I walked with the slow, rhythmic grace of a woman going to a coronation.

“Maggie! Where are you going?” Edison shouted.

I didn't answer. I stepped into the surf. The water was freezing, a shock of reality against the numbness of my skin.

The foam swirled around my ankles, pulling at the black silk.

The water hit my knees, the heavy fabric dragging me down, making it harder to move.

The crowd on the balcony was silent now. The champagne glasses stayed still. They weren't whispering anymore. They were watching the Tyrant walk into the abyss.

“Maggie! Get back here! This isn't funny!” Eddie’s voice finally cracked. The Sculptor was realizing his statue was walking off the pedestal and into the sea.

I kept walking until the Pacific rose to my chest, the black silk floating around me like a dark shroud. I looked back one last time—at the house of glass, at the husband of iron, and at the man who tried to save a ghost.

“The performance is over,” I whispered to the waves, and then I let the next swell take me under.

The water was a crushing, silent weight. Underneath the surface, the sounds of the party—the clinking glass, my mother’s shrill laughter, the men’s hollow arguments—were replaced by a rhythmic, heavy thrum. For a second, I let the darkness hold me. No contracts. No spare tire labels. Just the cold, honest sea.