Chapter 2 - The Coffin of Steel and Water
Ten feet. Twelve feet. Fourteen feet.
The infinity pool sloped downward into a diving basin that Clara had never paid attention to until now. The heavy metal frame of the wheelchair plummeted straight to the tiled bottom. The chlorine burned Clara’s eyes as she forced them open into the sting of the subterranean blue. Above her, the glowing lanterns of the terrace looked like distant, unreachable stars.
Her instinct was to kick, to propel herself upward toward the oxygen that her burning lungs desperately craved, but the cast on her leg weighed an eternity, and the safety belt—fastened securely across her waist to protect her pelvis—held her locked tight to the seat.
*My baby. God, please, my baby!*
Clara slammed her trembling hands against the metal buckle at her hips. Panic turned her blood to ice. The clasp was jammed. The impact of the water or the sheer tension of her body straining against the restraint had wedged the safety latch sideways. Her fingernails clawed at the nylon strap, tearing down to the quick, blood blossoming in slow, red clouds in the turquoise water.
Her lungs screamed. Every cell in her body demanded air, but she clamped her lips shut, her cheeks puffed, fighting the primal urge to inhale liquid death. She looked down at her swollen belly. Through the translucent silk of her gown, she felt a wild, violent thumping from within—her child was thrashing against the sudden pressure and lack of oxygen. Tears mingled with the chlorine as Clara gripped her stomach, silent wails dissolving into silver bubbles escaping from the corners of her mouth.
Above the surface, peering through the glass-like water, stood Victoria.
Victoria had stepped gracefully to the very edge of the coping stones. She did not run for a life preserver. She did not call for help. She simply stood there, champagne flute still balanced between two manicured fingers, watching Clara drown with the calm curiosity of a child observing an ant in a jar. Victoria tilted her head, a phantom of a smile playing on her crimson lips, counting down the seconds until the Montgomery heir was thoroughly extinguished.
Clara’s vision began to tunnel. Black speckles swarmed across her sight. Her chest felt as though an anvil were crushing her ribcage. Her hands grew heavy, sliding off her belly. Her strength was evaporating into the cold abyss.
Suddenly, the water above cracked like thunder.
A body broke the surface in an explosion of white foam. A young woman, dressed in the black catering apron of the service staff, sliced through the water with the grace of a torpedo. She didn't hesitate; she didn't surface for air. Her eyes were locked onto Clara’s sinking silhouette.
It was Maya Lin, a former collegiate diver working the rooftop event to pay her younger brother’s medical bills. While the high-society guests were lost in conversation thirty yards away, Maya had seen the brutal, calculated shove from behind the outdoor bar.
Maya kicked downward with savage power, the water rushing past her ears. She reached Clara just as the pregnant woman’s head lolled backward, Clara’s conscious mind slipping into the gray threshold of death.
Maya grabbed Clara’s shoulders, immediately feeling the immovability of the heavy chair. Seeing the jammed buckle, Maya hooked her thumbs beneath the strap and yanked with brute force. Nothing. The mechanism was locked tight. Maya reached into her apron pocket, pulling free the heavy stainless-steel wine key she carried for service. Wedging the metal foil-cutter blade beneath the locking pin, Maya leveraged all her strength, her veins bulging against the chlorine burn.
*Snap!*
The buckle gave way.
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Maya wrapped her left arm securely under Clara’s chest, anchoring the unconscious woman against her own body, and planted both feet against the metal armrest of the sunken wheelchair. With a ferocious thrust of her legs, Maya launched them away from the steel trap, kicking upward toward the distant light.
***
