A sharp yell from a woman cut through the buzz of the yacht. A waiter dropped a tray; glasses shattered. Instinctively, Sam ran to the rail, heart pounding, blazer speckled with cold sweat. All he saw was the swirl of water closing where, seconds earlier, Alex Grant had been.
On deck, the world seemed to freeze: guests poured out from the cabin, crowding along the rail, the wind holding the yacht's collective breath.
Without thinking, Sam shrugged off his blazer and dove into the water, slicing through the cold surface in a rush of adrenaline. He swam hard, muscles tight, clothes heavy and clinging to his body, but none of it mattered. Down below, through warped flashes of light and shadow, he found Alex, limp, arms open, black hair floating like seaweed.
Sam grabbed him, hauling Alex upward just as two life rings splashed down beside them, thrown by frantic hands on deck. The professional lifeguard was already diving in, reaching them as Sam kept Alex afloat, both of them bobbing, clutching at the smell of gasoline, salt, and panic.
Sam, Alex, and the lifeguard were pulled back onto the deck. Alex's face was pale as a mask; the crowd murmured, some filming, others wringing their hands in silent panic and embarrassment stamped on every expression.
Without hesitation, Sam knelt beside Alex, hair plastered to his forehead, breath ragged, and started mouth-to-mouth. Time seemed to fold in on itself — the jazz silenced, only the sound of the sea around — until Alex coughed hard, choking, sputtering water, life returning in spasms. A wave of relief swept through the yacht.
Before the collective silence could break, Alex, still breathless, pushed Sam aside, chest heaving. He stood up slowly with the help of a crew member and fixed his cold gaze on the crowd.
Alex's eyes landed on one man, quietly tucking away his phone, each word weighed down with warning.
"If anyone says a word about this — especially to Veronica, or the press — if even a comma of this leaks, I'll handle it myself. And I guarantee it won't be pleasant for anyone."
His tone made even the wind go still.
"You were all invited to a private event, in private waters. What happened here, stays here."
A collective sigh swept the deck. Phones disappeared into pockets and purses.No one dared even look at Sam, who helped Alex stand up, Alex's heavy arm draped over his shoulders.
A crew member cleared the way, and together—Sam, Alex, and the sailor—headed to the yacht's master suite, their footsteps echoing on the polished wood floor, while behind them the guests exchanged mute looks, caught between fear, fascination, and the awkwardness of having witnessed a reputation's shipwreck.
At the suite door, Alex paused, turning to Sam:
"Thank you."
Sam, wiping sweat from his forehead with a napkin, didn't return the sentiment.
"What was that, dude?" he snapped, voice low and trembling with anger and fear. "Did you think about anyone but yourself? If I couldn't swim, you'd have dragged me down with you! And what if there weren't witnesses? Do you realize I could have been accused of pushing you — some rich man — overboard?"
Alex tried to smile, but his lips just trembled.
"I... I'm sorry. I just... I'm hurting so much, man. I didn't know how to keep going…"
"Hurting?" Sam laughed bitterly. "You're a millionaire, Alex. You don't know what real pain is. You don't know what it's like to have to sell yourself, humiliate yourself, do whatever it takes to pay for your own child's treatment. You don't know what it's like to watch your boy be raised by your own sister because you can't even claim paternity, because his father — a dangerous man — might do something horrible if he found out. That's suffering, Alex."
Silence stretched between them, the yacht rocking gently, their heavy breathing filling the space.
Alex closed his eyes, absorbing Sam's words. Then, almost in a whisper, he asked,
"Your sister… she's pretending your son is hers?"
Sam nodded, exhausted.
Alex was quiet for a while, eyes fixed on the ceiling, lost in thought. Sam stood by the suite's window, watching the night settle over the sea, feeling tired and irritated by it all.
Finally, Alex broke the silence, as if a sudden thought had pulled him back to the present.
"What if… what if you pretended to be my illegitimate son? The son from some old affair of mine, an extramarital relationship… Just so I can get back at my wife, make her feel a bit of the pain she caused me. I pay very well, Sam. Enough for you to pay for your son's treatment—" his voice was steady now, full of promise "—and all you'd have to do is pretend to be my son. My hired son, let's call it that."
Sam turned to Alex, standing still for a moment as the weight of the proposal hung between them in that luxurious suite.
Accepting that offer would mean selling not only his presence, but his very identity. And the cost of that sacrifice was impossible to predict.