What’s the Latest on Cynthia?

What’s the Latest on Cynthia?
About An Hour Later— Carlos’s POV...

The chopper descended from the sky like a raging thunderbolt determined to rip through the heavens. Its blades roared ferociously, slicing the air with violent force. Below, party guests along the Hudson River's edge clutched anything they could— railings, chairs, champagne glasses— just to keep from being flung into the water by the violent gusts.

As the aircraft's wheels kissed the yacht's helipad, its rotors began to slow. But before the winds fully calmed, Carlos stepped out— boots thudding against the deck with a silent authority that silenced all chatter.

His jaw was clenched. His eyes? Unreadable.

"Where is she?" he asked, his tone flat, deadly.

"Madam Megan or the late Ms. Emily’s body, sir?" one of his SS agents replied hesitantly.

Carlos froze. The words twisted in his gut like a knife.

"Where's the body?" he responded, this time colder.

"She’s on the lower deck, sir. Follow me," the agent said with a bow.

They moved in unison, each step echoing with gravity. The lower deck was dead silent as Carlos approached the table where Emily’s body lay, draped in white.

He peeled back the covering gently, revealing her face for just a second.

Then he exhaled, slow and low.

"What happened?" His voice was sharp now.

"She drowned, sir," a suited agent replied.

Carlos’s eyes narrowed, burning a hole through the man. "I’ll need a better explanation than that."

"That’s all I know, sir," the man stuttered, stepping back.

Before Carlos could react, another voice cut in.

"It was murder, sir. I believe she was pushed. And Madam Megan would surely be behind it."

Carlos turned slowly to face the new speaker. One brow arched. "That’s a bold accusation. Keep talking."

"She felt something was off the whole ride. She even left you a voice message, sir. Said she didn’t trust Megan. Said if anything happened, we should hold her responsible."

"She left a voice message?"

"Yes, sir. Check your voicemail."

Carlos turned to another agent. "Get my phone. From the chopper. Now."

The agent dashed out.

"What’s your name?" Carlos turned back to the whistleblower.

"Harry, sir. Harry Lockwart."

"And how do you know all this, Harry?"

"I was the one who drove her here. I was in the car when she tried to reach you. I heard the voice note."

The returning agent handed Carlos his phone. Face recognition unlocked it instantly. He opened his voicemail. Pressed play.

Emily’s voice filled the air.

“…I just want to tell you I am going to your wife Megan’s yacht party. She says she wants to be friends but I don’t trust her ass. This is probably a setup, just like one of her sick and evil mind games. Anyways, I’m informing you. If anything happens to me… you’ll know who to hold. Bye.”

Silence.

Then Carlos’s voice boomed: "Where is Megan?"

"She’s in one of the rooms onboard, sir," someone replied.

"Fetch her. Now."

Two men bolted away. Tension coiled around every corner of the yacht.

Moments later, Megan was brought out, walking slowly. Her eyes locked on Carlos, reading his fury.

"Stop right there," he ordered.

She froze mid-step.

Carlos took one long breath. "Tell me you had nothing to do with this. Tell me. Now."

Megan’s fingers twitched. Her throat bobbed. No words came.

"Tell me," he repeated, softer this time, but more menacing.

Finally, Megan dropped her eyes. Then lifted them again— cold, calculative.

"I killed her," she whispered.

Carlos blinked, stunned. His phone slipped from his hand and hit the deck with a soft clack.

"You did what?"

"I killed her. She was sharing you with me. I won’t share you with anyone."

Carlos moved.

Fist smashed into the steel wall beside him, leaving a dent. His knuckles bled instantly.

Then, without a second thought, he lunged— grabbing Megan by the throat. His grip was tight, murderous.

She gasped, eyes bulging. Her knees buckled.

"Sir!" His agents yelled, rushing in.

Four men pulled him off. Megan dropped to the ground, coughing, gasping for air.

Carlos stood over her, chest heaving, veins pulsing across his forehead.

"What were you thinking?! This will be all over the news in no time!"

Then he laughed. Bitter. Hollow.

"Actually, I don’t care. Let them talk. I want you to know something, Megan—"

He crouched slightly to meet her bloodshot, tear-streaked eyes.

"The only reason you’re alive right now is because of that child you’re carrying. But the moment you give birth, I swear to Gaud… I’ll kill you myself."

He straightened up and turned away.

"Take her away," he ordered.

And like that, Megan was dragged off, her cries swallowed by the roar of the Hudson waters crashing below.

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Carlos then made his way back to the yatch helipad with a storm behind his boots. Every step across the upper deck echoing with purpose. The chopper’s rotors were already spinning lazily, the blades whining against the wind like impatient wolves.

He paused before stepping in, his jaw set, then turned slightly, addressing one of the men standing beside him. “What’s the latest on Cynthia?”