Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
“Do you think he’s dead?”
Moonlight glints off McCullough’s tear-streaked cheeks, catching in the wet tracks like something fragile, something already breaking beyond repair.
“I don’t know,” I murmur, my gaze fixed on the body at our feet.
Stephen lies face down in the grass, unnaturally still, the shape of him already beginning to feel less like a person and more like a problem.
“What are we going to do with him?” she asks, her voice thinner now, stretched tight with panic.
I don’t answer right away.
My mind moves through the possibilities with a kind of cold efficiency that surprises even me.
If we leave him here and he dies, it becomes something worse—something we lose control of.
If we call the police… I can already hear my mother’s voice, sharp and horrified, talking about reputation, about headlines, about everything that matters more than the truth.
We are a pillar of this community.
She’s said it my entire life.
My father donates millions to the right places. My mother smooths over every misstep before it can become a scandal. Our name appears in glossy features and charity galas, never in police reports.
That is how this world works.
That is how it survives.
My gaze drops back to Stephen. Blood has soaked into the grass beneath his head, dark and spreading, far too much of it.
I crouch slowly, forcing myself closer, and only then do I see it clearly—the angle of his fall, the sharp edge of the decorative stone where his temple must have struck.
The skin there is split open, the wound deep and wrong.
Teeth—God—a few of them are scattered in the damp grass.
My stomach twists, but I don’t look away. I can’t afford to.
My hand curls into a fist, the same one that struck him. All those hours of rowing, of building strength, of pushing myself harder than anyone else on the team… I never imagined I would use that strength like this.
But I would do anything for McCullough.
Anything.
And then, just as quickly as the panic rose, something else settles over me.
Clarity.
I straighten slowly, the decision already made before I fully register it. “You need to go back to the hotel,” I say, my voice steadier now. “I’ll take care of this.”
“What? No—Whitney—”
“Yes.” I cut her off, sharper than I intend, but there isn’t time to soften it. “Go. Trust me. I’ll meet you in the room in a few minutes.”
“But—”
I turn to her fully then, holding her gaze, letting her see the resolve in mine. “If the university finds out about this, we’re done. Both of us. And if my mother finds out…” I shake my head slightly. “You don’t want to know what that looks like.”
She presses her lips together, the fight draining out of her as quickly as it came. I see it in her eyes—the fear, the shock, the way she’s already beginning to fold under the weight of it.
“Are you sure?” she whispers.
I swallow, then crouch once more, pressing my fingers to Stephen’s neck.
Nothing.
No pulse.
No movement.
“He’s dead,” I say quietly. The words land heavier than anything else so far. “That means we decide what happens next. So let me handle it.”
Fresh tears spill down her cheeks, and for the first time I see just how young she looks. How young we both are. Not even twenty, and already standing over something that will follow us for the rest of our lives.
But in this moment, I feel older than her.
Stronger.
Or maybe just… better trained.
Veronica Ramsey taught me well.
“Go back,” I say more gently now. “Get some sleep. Try not to think about this again.” A humorless breath escapes me. “You don’t want to be the last debutante at the ball, remember?”
Her mouth trembles as she shakes her head. “I guess we’re breaking tradition… in more ways than one.”
I don’t respond.
I just watch her go.
I stand there until she disappears down the garden path, swallowed by shadows and soft lights, until there’s nothing left of her but the echo of her footsteps and the silence that follows.
Only then do I move.
I take a slow breath, steadying myself, then reach down and grip Stephen’s wrists. His skin is already cooling beneath my hands, heavier than it should be, dead weight in the most literal sense.
I drag him through the hedge, careful to stay in the shadows, keeping low and out of sight of the path lights beyond the magnolias. The branches catch at my dress, scratch at my arms, but I barely feel it.
I never thought I’d have to dispose of a body in paradise.
But life has a way of rewriting expectations.
By the time I reach the breakwater, my arms are shaking, my feet slick with dew—and blood. It takes everything I have left to haul him up and over the edge. For a second, he teeters there, suspended between what was and what comes next.
Then he falls.
The sound of his body hitting the shallow water is muted, swallowed quickly by the bay.
I climb over after him, landing in the mud with a soft splash, my breath coming faster now.
A small dinghy bobs nearby, half-forgotten, its rope frayed from years of neglect.
I untie it quickly and drag it closer, then wrestle Stephen’s body into it, forcing myself not to think about the way he moves now—loose, unresisting.
The boathouse sits just a short distance away. I move fast, grabbing a paddle from the side, then return to the dinghy and push off into the bay.
The water is calm.
Thank God.
I row hard, muscle memory taking over, each stroke precise and practiced. I’ve been out here hundreds of times. I know this water better than most people ever will—the shallow shifts, the hidden currents, the places where the bay turns dangerous without warning.
There’s a sandbar in the center, where the currents twist together, pulling anything caught in them outward toward the Gulf. Most people avoid it.
I never did.
I trained there.
I built myself there.
And tonight, it will serve a different purpose.
Moonlight dances across the surface as I slow near the edge of the current. The water changes here—subtle, but unmistakable. I set the paddle down and lean over him, pressing my fingers to his neck one last time.
For a split second—I think I feel something.
A flicker.
A pulse.
But it’s faint. Too faint. Probably just my own blood hammering through my fingertips.
I don’t let myself think any further.
I hook my hands under his arms and heave, summoning everything I have left. His body tips over the edge of the dinghy and disappears into the shifting water, the current catching him almost immediately.
Gone.
I glance back toward shore, calculating the distance, the path back.
Then I look down at myself—at the silk of my dress, streaked with blood—and make the only choice I have left.
I jump.
The water hits me hard, cold and disorienting, the weight of my dress dragging me down for a terrifying second. I kick, fight, force my head above the surface, gasping as the current tugs at me, trying to pull me back.
Toward the boat.
Toward him.
“Come on, Whitney,” I mutter through clenched teeth. “You can do this.”
I push forward, arms slicing through the water, legs burning as the fabric tangles around me. Every stroke is a battle, every inch earned. I don’t let myself stop. I don’t let myself think.
I swim until the current loosens its grip.
Until the water shallows.
Until seaweed brushes against my ankles and the shore comes back into reach.
By the time I stumble onto land, my lungs are on fire and my entire body is trembling. I don’t stop moving. I can’t.
I reach the boathouse and immediately begin tugging at the laces of my dress, fingers clumsy and raw. There’s no way I can walk back into The Pierre like this—not drenched, not stained.
I strip the dress off and shove it into a nearby trash bin, then grab a tangle of discarded fishing net and other debris, piling it on top until the silk disappears beneath it.
Twenty thousand dollars.
Gone.
I’m left standing in a soaked slip, hair plastered to my skin, looking exactly like what I am—someone who has just survived something she shouldn’t have.
If anyone asks, I’ll say I got caught in the sprinklers.
It’s late. Past two, if I had to guess. The lobby should be empty.
Never be the last debutante at the ball.
My mother’s voice echoes in my head, sharp and useless now.
So much for rules.
With my heart still racing, I walk back through the gardens and toward the hotel, each step carrying me further away from what happened—and deeper into whatever comes next.
I tell myself I need to forget.
I tell myself I will.
But even as I move forward, one thought presses in, impossible to ignore—if the current isn’t strong enough to carry him out by morning…everything falls apart.
And then—too late—I remember.
The Pucci heels.
Still sitting on the breakwater.