My Wife Pushed Me Off a Yacht For Her Idol

§01

The Atlantic was a shock of liquid ice, a brutal slap that stole the air from his lungs.

One moment, Dashiell Rhodes was on the deck of his flagship yacht, surrounded by the warm glow of the Labor Day party.

The next, he was plunging into a black, churning void.

His tuxedo jacket, a custom Tom Ford, felt like a lead weight, dragging him down.

Above, the lights of the *Helmsman's Pride* blurred into a constellation of indifferent stars.

He could hear the faint thrum of music, the ghost of laughter.

Then, nothing.

Just the roar of water in his ears and the searing burn in his chest.

This is how it ends, he thought, a strange, cold calm settling over the panic.

Not in a boardroom, not in a crash, but here.

In the middle of nowhere.

Because of a phone call.

It had started just fifteen minutes ago.

Liliana, his wife of five years, had stormed onto the deck, her face pale beneath the festive lights.

"We have to turn back," she’d said, her voice tight with a hysteria he’d never heard before.

"Lily, what are you talking about? We're in international waters."

"It's Thaddeus," she’d choked out, clutching her phone like a holy relic. "He hurt his hand. He’s in pain."

Thaddeus Crane. The Architect of Harmony.

The world-renowned concert pianist she called her 'white moonlight'.

Her old friend from Juilliard.

The man whose name had become a constant, unwelcome presence in their marriage since his return from Europe a month ago.

"He hurt his hand?" Dashiell had repeated, the absurdity of it hitting him. "And for that, you want to turn around a twenty-thousand-ton vessel?"

"You don't understand!" she’d shrieked, drawing stares. "His hands are everything! He needs me!"

"He needs a doctor, Lily. We'll arrange the best one as soon as we dock."

"No! Now! He’s my everything! I have to go to him! I don't care if this ship sinks!"

That was when she started pushing him.

Frantic, desperate shoves against his chest as he tried to calm her, to reason with her.

In the chaos of her flailing, his foot slipped on a slick patch of deck.

He lost his balance.

And then, he was falling.

The last thing he saw was her face.

Not horror. Not regret.

Just… a blank, chilling indifference as he disappeared over the rail.

§02

The harsh, sterile light of the ICU was the first thing Dashiell saw.

Then, the rhythmic beep of a heart monitor.

He was alive.

A fishing trawler had found him, a miracle of timing and luck.

He’d suffered from hypothermia and swallowed a lungful of the Atlantic, but he was alive.

The door swished open.

Liliana walked in, Thaddeus Crane trailing behind her, his wrist wrapped in a neat medical bandage.

It was a minor sprain.

A fucking sprain.

She looked at him, not with relief, but with an air of profound annoyance.

Her lips curled into a sneer.

"You deserved that," she said, her voice as cold as the ocean he'd almost died in. "Who told you to stand in my way?"

"I deserved that?" The words were a raw rasp from his throat.

The rage that erupted in his chest was so hot it almost choked him.

"We were in international waters, Liliana! In this weather, a sea rescue is a gamble! Did you actually want me dead?"

She gave a dismissive little laugh.

"The yacht has life-saving equipment, doesn't it? And the sea was calm. Thaddeus's hand is vital to his career. You know that!"

Before he could even process the monstrous logic, she added the final, killing blow.

"Besides, they pulled you out, didn't they? Stop being so dramatic."

"...You really were hoping I wouldn't make it back, weren't you?"

He let out a short, bitter laugh.

It was useless. Arguing with her was like trying to reason with a storm.

In that moment, gasping for air in the black water, he'd finally seen the truth.

She had never loved him.

He glanced at Thaddeus, who stood there with an expression of gentle concern, a masterclass in feigned sincerity.

"For a sprained wrist," Dashiell said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You were willing to kill me for a sprained wrist."

"How was I supposed to know it was just a sprain?" Liliana’s voice rose, defensive. "He was in so much pain he could barely speak! Is it so wrong to care about a friend?"

"Don't," Thaddeus said softly, placing a hand on her arm. "This is my fault. I shouldn't have called in such a panic."

The sight of Thaddeus comforting his wife in his hospital room made something in Dashiell snap.

He lunged for the organic kale smoothie Liliana had brought—a pathetic, performative gesture of care.

With a roar of pure, unadulterated fury, he hurled it against the pristine white wall.

The thick, green liquid exploded in a sickening splash, dripping down like artificial blood.

"Get out!" he bellowed, the sound tearing from his soul. "This is an ICU, not a stage for your disgusting little romance!"

They stared, stunned by the violence.

Liliana recovered first, her face flushing with anger.

"Are you insane? You swallowed some seawater, and now you think you can act like a savage?"

"Lily, calm down," Thaddeus murmured, ever the peacemaker.

Dashiell’s lips twisted into a cruel smile.

"A friend? You call this friendship? Fine. Since you care about him so much, Liliana, let's get a divorce."

§03

The word "divorce" hung in the air, electric and venomous.

Liliana, surprisingly, looked cornered.

"Don't you dare use that to insult me, Dashiell," she spat. "If I truly had feelings for Thad, why would I have married you?"

Thaddeus sighed, a picture of weary nobility. "Mr. Rhodes, I believe there's been a misunderstanding. Liliana and I are simply musical soulmates."

"Musical soulmates?" Dashiell’s gaze was glacial, fixed on the man's hand resting possessively on his wife's shoulder.

Liliana bristled at his stare. "What is that look? Just because your own mind is filthy, you assume the same of others?"

He closed his eyes, the image of them seared into his brain.

He remembered the woman he’d met six years ago.

A brilliant dancer, her smile as pure as the morning dew.

He'd spent a year winning her over.

He built a dance studio for her.

He funded her productions.

He made her a star.

And all along, this ghost, this 'white moonlight', had been lurking in the shadows of her heart.

He felt a wave of nausea.

"I won't apologize for this," Liliana said, her tone sharp as she swept up the mess from the floor. "I'm tired of your cold shoulder tactics."

She took Thaddeus's arm and they left, leaving him alone with the beeping monitor and the green stain on the wall.

He was discharged a few days later.

The doctors called his swift recovery a miracle.

Dashiell knew it wasn't a miracle. It was a purpose.

He returned to their penthouse, The Prism, a stunning monument of glass and steel overlooking Port Sterling.

He walked in to find Liliana and Thaddeus laughing in the foyer, a Michelin-starred delivery bag on the counter.

"Thaddeus’s hand is still healing," Liliana announced, her voice dripping with self-righteousness. "A hotel is so impersonal. I thought it best he stay here where I can look after him."

"You brought him into our home?" Dashiell’s voice was dangerously quiet.

"Don't be so dramatic, Dashiell. The apartment is huge. Besides, you're always working. You won't even notice he's here."

The arrogance was breathtaking.

"I won't notice?" he repeated. "Since he came back, our lives have been a constant battleground. Who do you think caused that?"

"You!" she flared.

Thaddeus stepped between them, the perfect gentleman. "Perhaps I should leave. I would hate to be the cause of marital strife."

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