Chapter 1

The salt spray felt wrong on Amelia' s face, too cold for a Galveston May.

It wasn' t the sea, though, just the memory of it, a phantom chill against her skin as she stared at the spreadsheet on her laptop.

Numbers swam, red and black, a tide of deceit pulling her under.

Ten years. Ten years married to Ethan Bishop, the golden boy of Houston oil, her college sweetheart.

Now, he was just a thief in a bespoke suit.

The New Orleans restoration project, her passion, her family' s money, was bleeding.

And she knew Ethan held the knife.

His excuses about the joint account were smoother than his usual charm, and that was saying something.

"Market fluctuations, Amy, darling. These old properties, they' re money pits until they' re jewels."

But the numbers didn' t lie, and neither did the faint, unfamiliar perfume clinging to his shirts lately.

Savi Carter. Early twenties, PR assistant at Bishop Oil & Gas, all teeth and ambition. Amy had seen her at company events.

The upcoming weekend at their Galveston beach house, Ethan' s idea, suddenly felt less like a reconciliation attempt and more like a stage.

He' d been insistent, unusually so. "Just us, Amy. Like old times. We need to reconnect."

His voice, usually so confident, had a tremor she couldn't place. Fear? Or something else?

The squall hit them miles from shore, a furious, unexpected beast.

One moment, Ethan was fumbling with the sail, his face pale. The next, a rogue wave, a sickening lurch.

She remembered the boom swinging wildly, Ethan' s shout lost in the wind' s howl.

Then, icy water, the boat capsizing, the world a churning, dark chaos.

She surfaced, gasping, the small sailboat already half-submerged.

Ethan was clinging to the hull, his eyes wide, not with concern for her, but with a strange, focused intensity.

"Amy! The rope!" he' d screamed, pointing to a loose line.

But as she reached, another wave crashed over them.

When she came up again, sputtering, he was further away, his expression unreadable. He wasn' t swimming towards her. He was watching.

Then he turned, struggling with something near the wreckage, before a larger wave obscured him.

She thought he was trying to right the boat, or find a life vest.

She was a strong swimmer, always had been, but the current was a relentless enemy, dragging her away from the overturned hull, away from Ethan.

She saw him one last time, a silhouette against the raging sky, before the waves pulled her under and away.

She woke up on sand, miles down the coast, coughing up saltwater, her body a symphony of pain.

A reclusive old shrimper, a man named Silas with eyes like the deep sea, had found her. He' d seen his share of storms, of things lost and found.

He didn' t ask many questions, just offered her dry clothes, hot coffee, and a place by his small fire.

It took a day for her to piece together who she was, where she was.

Her head throbbed, a cut above her eye still seeping.

Then Silas brought her an old newspaper.

Her face stared back at her from the front page. "Tragic Loss at Sea: Architect Amelia Hayes Bishop Presumed Drowned."

Ethan, his face a mask of carefully constructed grief, was quoted extensively. "She was distressed... an argument... took the boat out alone..."

Alone. The lie was a physical blow.

And beside him in a smaller photo, a hand on his arm, offering comfort? Savi Carter.

The article mentioned he was "being supported by close friends and colleagues."

Amelia felt a coldness spread through her, colder than the Gulf waters.

Shattered, then fury. A pure, diamond-hard rage.

He hadn' t just let her die. He had planned it. The siphoned funds, the affair, the sudden trip. It all clicked into a horrifying picture.

He wanted her gone. He wanted her money. He wanted his pretty young thing.

"He' s a quick one, that husband of yours," Silas said, his voice raspy, handing her a newer paper a few days later.

A society page snippet: Ethan Bishop, still looking somber, but Savi was now firmly by his side at a Bishop Oil & Gas event.

The caption hinted at her "unwavering support during this difficult time."

Amelia' s hand tightened on the cheap newsprint.

She used Silas' s burner phone, the one he kept for "emergencies and avoiding foolishness."

Her mother' s voice was a lifeline. Caroline Hayes, retired judge, sharp as a tack, and the only person who' d ever voiced a flicker of distrust about Ethan.

"Mama," Amelia whispered, her voice raw. "It' s me. I' m alive."

A sharp intake of breath on the other end. Then, Caroline' s voice, steel and love combined. "Amelia. Tell me everything."

And she did. The suspicions, the accident, Ethan' s betrayal, Savi.

Silence. Then, "He won' t get away with this, darling. But you can' t come back. Not yet."

"I know," Amelia said, the cold fury solidifying into a plan. "He thinks I' m dead. Let him."

This wasn' t just survival. This was a resurrection.

She was no longer Amelia Hayes Bishop, the loving wife. That woman had drowned in the storm.

Someone new was clawing her way out of the wreckage.

She had to understand the depth of his betrayal, the true nature of the man she had loved.

Ethan, back in Houston, was likely performing his role as the grieving widower.

He would be charmingly devastated, accepting condolences, perhaps even shedding a tear for the cameras.

All the while, he' d be calculating his next move, consolidating his access to her trust, moving Savi into their life.

The dramatic irony was a bitter pill: he was mourning a woman who was very much alive, a woman who was now his hunter.