Chapter 151

Chapter 151
Julian's POV

I stood in the doorway, my gray-blue eyes locked on the knife in Jack's hand.

The blade caught the dying light filtering through the cabin's grimy window—that particular quality of late winter sunset, brighter than deep winter but fading fast. Behind Jack, tied to the chair with duct tape sealing her mouth, Elle was suffocating.

Her chest heaved in short, desperate bursts. Each inhale through her nose was too shallow, too fast. The phobias were eating her alive—deep water visible through the window, confined space pressing in, childhood trauma resurging with brutal clarity.

I could see it in her eyes. The same terror from ten years ago, when she'd been eight years old and drowning in the Atlantic.

"Get away from her." My voice came out barely above a whisper, but it cut through the cabin like a blade. "Now."

Jack's hand tightened on the knife. His face—older, harder, marked by years of suffering I could see etched into every line—turned toward me with an expression I recognized. Rage mixed with something close to relief.

I raised both hands slowly, palms out, making myself the target. "Put down the knife. This has nothing to do with her."

"Everything has to do with her!" Jack's voice cracked. "She's a Sterling. That's all that matters."

"No." I took a step forward, deliberately positioning myself between him and Elle. "If you want someone from that family to pay, take me."

Jack's eyes narrowed. The knife point shifted slightly away from Elle's direction. Good. Keep his attention on me.

"Ten years ago," I said, my voice dropping lower, more controlled, "Martha's Vineyard. That summer. What happened to Elle—that was my fault."

Jack went still.

"I was the one who found her missing first." The words came easier than I expected, years of suppressed guilt finally breaking free. "That day, when I realized she was gone, I went straight to Arthur. We discovered you'd taken her to the dock together."

I paused, forcing myself to meet Jack's eyes.

"I wanted to rush in immediately. Save her right then." My voice was getting rougher. "But Arthur stopped me. He said we should get help first, get adults, that two kids charging in would only make things worse."

The memory was vivid—Arthur's hand on my shoulder, his voice calm and rational, telling me to think strategically. And I'd listened.

"I listened to Arthur," I continued. "I went to find the yacht's security team. He went to find my father. By the time we got back with help—"

My voice broke completely.

"Elle was already in the water. Arthur jumped in to save her. I could only stand on shore and watch."

Ten years of self-loathing poured into those words. If I hadn't listened to Arthur. If we'd rushed in immediately. Maybe Elle would never have been pushed. Maybe I would have been the one to save her instead of just watching Arthur become the hero.

Jack stared at me, something shifting in his expression.

"So you understand?" I lifted my head, tears burning in my eyes—fuck pride, fuck composure. "I should never have gone for help first. I should have saved Eleanor immediately. And because of it, she almost died."

I dropped to my knees, pressing my forehead to the cold wooden floor.

"I'll kowtow to you," I said. "Let her go. If you want to kill someone, take me. I'm the one who made the wrong call that day."

Behind me, I heard Elle's muffled scream—"Mmmmph! Mmm-mmm-mmm!"—desperate and broken. I could hear her thrashing against the ropes, the chair scraping against the floor.

But I couldn't look back. One glance at her and Jack would see my weakness, would know exactly where to strike.

Jack stood there, his bad leg casting a twisted shadow in the candlelight. He looked at me kneeling on the floor, silent for a long moment.

"You know how many years I spent in prison?" His voice was hoarse. "Seven. Seven fucking years."

I didn't lift my head.

"When I got out, I had nothing," Jack continued. "No job. No home. I couldn't even find my mother's grave—because I had no money to buy her a plot. They cremated her and threw her ashes in a public cemetery's mass grave."

His voice started shaking.

"All these years, I kept asking myself—why? Why did I end up like this? Then I remembered. It was because of that summer. Because I was too soft-hearted to kill that little girl, and I ended up in prison for it."

Jack walked over to me, using the knife point to lift my chin, forcing me to look up. My forehead was bleeding from pressing against the floor, but my eyes stayed steady.

"You say it was your fault?" Jack's laugh was bitter. "Then prove it."

He held out the knife to me.

"One stab for every rope. Four ropes, four stabs. Fair trade."

---

My fingers closed around the knife handle.

The metal bit into my palm, cold and unforgiving. Behind me, Elle's struggles got more frantic—the duct tape turned her screams into sounds that weren't quite human, "Mmmmph! Mmm-mmm!"—and every one of them hit me harder than any blade could.

I looked at her.

Elle's eyes were blown wide, pupils swallowing the green until they were almost black. Tears carved tracks through the grime on her face, soaking into the edges of the tape.

She was shaking her head so hard I thought her neck might snap, trying to scream through the seal.

I gave her a smile. "Red," I said quietly. "Close your eyes."

She shook her head harder, the sound from her throat climbing higher.

I took a breath and turned the knife toward my left arm.

"First cut."

The blade went in with a wet sound that seemed too loud. I bit down until my jaw ached, refusing to make a sound—wouldn't give Jack the satisfaction, wouldn't make Elle's terror worse. The pain was white-hot, nerves screaming, but I kept my face blank.

Blood welled up fast, running down my forearm in lines that dripped onto the floor. Sweat broke across my forehead. My vision blurred for a second before I forced it clear, forced myself to look at Elle.

She was still shaking her head, the sound from her throat rising to something that made my hands shake worse than the pain. I could see her wrists raw and bleeding where the ropes cut in, could see her trying to break free through sheer desperation.

Jack nodded and walked to Elle. One quick motion and the rope on her left hand fell away.

Elle's hand came free. She went straight for the tape, fingers clawing, but Jack grabbed her wrist hard enough to bruise.

"Game's not over," he said. "Three more ropes."

I didn't wait. Adjusted the knife angle, aimed at my right arm, and met Elle's eyes one more time. Her tears were falling so fast they dripped from her chin. I wanted to tell her it was okay, that I'd do this a thousand times if it meant keeping her safe.

Instead I just mouthed: Trust me.

"Second cut."

This time I couldn't hold it in. A sound escaped—low, rough—as the blade went deeper than the first. Blood flowed faster, hot streams running to my elbow and dripping off in fat drops. My right hand shook, fingers slippery, and I had to grip harder to keep steady.

The world tilted. I blinked hard, pushing back the dizziness, and watched Jack cut Elle's right hand free.

Both hands loose now. She was clawing at the tape, nails scraping the adhesive, but Jack had already stepped back, knife pointing at her again.

"Don't move," he said, and there was sick excitement creeping into his voice. "Two more cuts."