REBORN TO RUIN HIM

POV: Elara The yacht is lit up like a fairytale. String lights drape the upper deck in warm colors, and the champagne in my glass catches every flicker, spinning small galaxies against the crystal. Nathaniel's hand is warm at the small of my back steady, familiar, the way it has been for years and somewhere behind us, a string quartet drifts through something I recognize but cannot name. Our fifth anniversary, I keep saying it in my head like it means something. "You're a thousand miles away." Nathaniel leans down, his mouth brushing my temple, and I let myself lean into him because that is what I do, what I have always done, lean into the warmth of him and ignore the cold underneath. "I'm right here," I say, laughing a little, tipping my head back to look at him. He smiles. God, that smile. I have never stopped falling for it. The deck sways gently under my heels as I drift toward the railing, champagne in hand, watching the black water shift below. The night is perfect in the particular way that feels too arranged — every detail settled into place like a stage set, the stars cooperating, the sea calm. I should feel happy. I do feel happy, I think, though happiness and relief have blurred so thoroughly over the years that I can no longer tell them apart. "Come away from the railing." Nathaniel's voice is easy. "You know you're clumsy when you've been drinking." "I've had one glass." I turn to look at him, mock-offended, and he spreads his hands in theatrical surrender, grinning. "One glass is enough for you, Elara." I roll my eyes and turn back to the water, resting my arms along the rail and that is when I feel it. The railing simply hinges downward, I don't scream because I was caught off guard. The water comes up fast and swallows everything in a single black second, and the cold is extraordinary — absolute zero, lights-out cold. I fight. My body knows what to do even when my mind is still catching up, and I kick hard against the dark and break the surface once, gasping, flinging wet hair from my eyes. Nathaniel is at the railing above me. For a half-second I think: he's going to jump. He's going to come for me. I reach up, stretching my arm toward him, water dragging at my dress, my shoes, everything conspiring to pull me under again. He takes one step back, his hands clasped at his sides, his weight settling onto his back foot with the patience of a man who has decided to wait something out. "Nathan" The word dissolves into water as a wave catches me, and I go under again, fighting, surfacing, and when I look up again he is still there at the railing, perfectly framed against the string lights. Not panicking, not shouting for help, not even reaching out, instead he just watched. The cold gets inside my lungs the third time I go under. It isn't violent — it's almost gentle, the way the dark replaces everything incrementally, sound first, then light, then the feeling of my own limbs. I am fighting and then I am less fighting and then I am very still. The last thing I see before I blackout takes is his face. He is perfectly calm as if he orchestrated it all. Oh, I think, with the last clear thought I will ever have in this body, the water filling me up quietly. Was i going to end here, he decided to end my life here, it is such a shame i fell for such a scumbag and I will never be able to prove it.