My sister shoved me off the yacht and laughed.
“Say hello to the sharks for me!” she yelled as I hit the water.
The ocean swallowed me whole—cold, dark, violent. My lungs burned as I sank, the white hull of the yacht shrinking above me.
And on the deck?
My parents were standing side by side.
Smiling.
No panic.
No shouting my name.
Just relief.
That was when I understood.
This wasn’t an accident.
They weren’t shocked.
This was the plan.
Three hours earlier, we’d been celebrating my thirty-fifth birthday in the middle of the Pacific. Champagne. Music. A cake flown in from Paris. My family insisted we take my yacht—Aurora—out for a sunset cruise.
“You work too much,” my mother had said, kissing my cheek. “Tonight is about family.”
Family.
I should’ve laughed.
Because what they really wanted was my signature—on documents waiting in my cabin. Trust transfers. Emergency succession clauses.
$5.6 billion dollars.
My father had poured the drinks. My sister, Claire, had hugged me too tightly.
“You’re untouchable now,” she whispered. “World’s youngest self-made billionaire.”
I didn’t notice her hand slipping the sedative into my glass.
Not until my legs felt heavy near the railing.
Not until Claire’s smile changed.
“You always had everything,” she said softly, then pushed.
The water was freezing. I kicked instinctively, my vision blurring. The sedative was working—but not fast enough.
I remembered something my head of security once told me.
Always plan for betrayal. Especially from blood.
I pulled the slim device from my watchband and pressed it.
A red light blinked.
Ten minutes later, I was being dragged onto a black speedboat by men who didn’t ask questions.
By the time my family sailed home, they believed I was dead.
They cried on camera.
They held a private funeral.
They moved into my estate.
And they triggered the clause they thought would make them kings.
What they didn’t know—
Was that I had written a second set of documents.
When my parents arrived home that night, the mansion lights were on.
That confused them.
When they walked into the living room, they froze.
I was sitting there.
Dry. Calm. Dressed in black.
Claire screamed.
My mother dropped her purse. “You—you’re dead.”
I smiled. “You really should’ve checked for a body.”
My father backed away. “This is impossible.”
Behind them, the doors locked.
Screens flickered to life on every wall.
Bank records.
Audio recordings.
Video footage—from the yacht.
Including my sister’s voice: “Say hello to the sharks for me.”
Claire collapsed to her knees.
“You tried to steal my fortune,” I said evenly. “So I let you.”
They stared at the screen showing their accounts.
Zeroes. All of them.
“You see,” I continued, standing, “the moment you declared me deceased, the contingency activated.”
My mother sobbed. “Please—”
“You signed away everything,” I said. “And confessed to murder.”
Sirens wailed outside.
Police. Federal agents. Interpol.
I leaned down toward my sister. “No sharks out there,” I whispered. “But prison? That one’s real.”
As they were dragged away, my father screamed, “You’re not family!”
I watched the doors close.
“No,” I said softly. “You were just an investment.”
And I finally divested.
