Chapter 90
Emily Windsor's POV
Every single word had been a path Luke paved for me in advance.
I was taken directly to the hospital.
A battery of tests showed that aside from extreme psychological trauma, I had no physical injuries.
But I knew that the most vital part of me had already sunk to the bottom of the ocean with that inferno, lost forever.
For the next few days, I became a puppet with its strings cut loose.
The world drained to monotone shades of black and white. Food tasted like ash. Sounds were nothing but distant static.
I simply lay there with my eyes open, replaying that explosion over and over in my mind, replaying the shape his lips made in those final seconds.
Live.
What a cruel command.
He'd traded his life to sentence me to a lifetime of torment I could never escape.
Jade stayed by my side around the clock, bringing tea and water, whispering gentle reassurances.
But no amount of warmth could penetrate the thick sheet of ice encasing my heart.
Until the third afternoon, when the door to my room swung open and Lily walked in.
She looked far more haggard than the last time I'd seen her. Dark circles hung heavy beneath her eyes, and even her sharp black suit couldn't hide the bone-deep exhaustion and grief radiating from her frame.
The sight of her finally stirred a ripple across the dead surface of my heart.
I bolted upright in bed. The sudden movement made my vision swim.
"Where is he?" My voice came out dry and ragged, like two withered leaves scraping together. "Where's Luke? Did you find him?"
Lily looked at me, and those eyes—usually so sharp and proud—now held nothing but deep, suffocating sorrow.
She opened her mouth, but no words came out.
"No..." I shook my head, shrinking back involuntarily, as if retreating could somehow let me escape the truth staring me in the face. "It's impossible... he promised me... he promised..."
A strangled sob tore from my throat. I couldn't hold it together anymore. I curled into myself on the bed, and tears poured down my face like broken pearls, scalding hot against the cold sheets.
"Emily." Lily rushed forward, gripping my trembling shoulders hard. Her hands were strong, her voice carrying a tremor she couldn't quite suppress. "Listen to me."
"The rescue team recovered all the wreckage, but..." She paused, swallowing hard. "They didn't find his remains."
My crying stopped abruptly. I jerked my head up, staring at her through streaming tears, hardly daring to believe.
"No body means he's still alive." Lily's eyes were red-rimmed, but she forced herself to stay composed. The words seemed meant as much to convince herself as to comfort me. "That's what we have to believe. It's the only thing we can believe."
Yes. The only thing.
That sentence—bordering on self-deception—became the single lifeline I could grasp in the endless darkness.
As long as I hadn't seen his corpse with my own eyes, I refused to believe he was dead.
How could someone like Luke—who could do anything—die so easily?
That thought acted like adrenaline straight to the heart, instantly dispersing some of the death hanging over me.
Rationality began to return, and the chaotic fragments of memory I'd been deliberately ignoring started to piece themselves back together.
I remembered.
On my frantic dash toward the captain's quarters, I'd tripped over a body.
No—not a body. A crew member who'd been clinging to his last breath.
At the time, I'd been single-mindedly focused on finding the communication equipment and hadn't stopped for him. But in the instant our paths crossed, he'd used his final ounce of strength to press something cold and hard into the pocket of my gown.
A phone.
I threw myself out of bed, stumbling to the closet. With shaking hands, I fished through the pocket of that blood-soaked dress until my fingers closed around it.
The battery was dead, the screen black.
I cradled it like priceless treasure and carefully placed it in Lily's hands.
"This is evidence." My voice was still hoarse, but I'd reclaimed a measure of the cold logic that defined me as a lawyer. "One of the crew members recorded everything that happened before he died. He gave this to me."
Lily took the phone, her eyes sharpening instantly.
I looked at her, the fragility in my gaze replaced by icy hatred.
"Give this to the FBI," I said, each word precise and clear. "I want Lawrence to pay in blood. I want justice for Luke."
Lily left with that phone—the one carrying all the truth—her expression grave.
Before she went, she told me to rest and assured me she'd handle everything from here.
But how could I possibly rest?
The flames from that yacht, the silent shape of his lips in those final moments—they were seared into my retinas and my heart like red-hot brands.
Every time I closed my eyes, the deafening explosion and towering fire swallowed me whole.
Grief and hatred prowled my chest like two wild beasts, tearing at each other.
I couldn't sit still. This sterile white room felt like slow torture with every passing second.
I had to get out. I needed to see Lawrence dragged into court with my own eyes. I had to seek justice for Luke myself.
I changed out of the hospital gown, grabbed my coat, and headed for the door.
But the moment my hand touched the handle, the door swung open from the outside.
Two hulking bodyguards in black suits blocked my path, faces expressionless. They gave slight bows, but their tone left no room for argument. "Miss Windsor, Miss Lily has instructed us that you need rest. You cannot leave."
My stomach dropped.
I retreated into the room and immediately dialed Lily's number.
The phone rang for a long time before she picked up. The background noise was chaotic.
"What's wrong?" Her voice sounded tired.
"Why did you post guards on me?" I cut straight to the point, a note of suspicion I hadn't consciously intended creeping into my tone.
Silence stretched on the other end for several seconds. Then came her voice—warm, but unyielding. "Emily, you're the person the Lowe family most wants dead, and you're also the most critical witness in this case. I have to guarantee your absolute safety. Staying in the hospital with my people watching over you is the best option. Trust me."
Her words were seamless, every syllable wrapped in concern. But strung together, they felt like an invisible net trapping me in place.
I was a lawyer. I knew the logical traps hidden in smooth rhetoric all too well.
She wasn't wrong—but this kind of "protection" was indistinguishable from house arrest.
Over the following hours, I learned what it meant to be caged.
No matter where I went, those two bodyguards shadowed me three paces behind.
They never spoke to me. They simply played their roles as silent, dutiful "shadows," severing me completely from the outside world.
I locked myself in the bathroom, splashing ice-cold water on my face, trying to force my chaotic mind to clear.