My billionaire father had arranged our Caribbean honeymoon aboard one of the finest yachts in the Sterling fleet, presenting the voyage as his wedding gift to us.
The vessel had six guest suites, a private dining salon, marble bathrooms, polished mahogany staircases, and a crew trained to anticipate every possible need.
It was the sort of luxury most people could only imagine, yet I would have traded every inch of it for a locked door on dry land.
For three days, I had barely been able to keep my eyes open.
Flynn insisted that my weakness came from seasickness, although I had been sailing with my father since childhood without experiencing anything similar.
Every evening, he brought me two small white pills with a glass of water and watched until I swallowed them.
“For the nausea, sweetheart,” he would whisper while smoothing my hair away from my forehead.
I never questioned him because the man sitting beside my bed was the same man who had spent months convincing me that my happiness mattered more than my inheritance.
