“Time to meet the sharks,” my daughter-in-law murmured before shoving me overboard. My son stood there, grinning, as the sea swallowed me whole. His plan? To get his hands on my ten-million-pound fortune.
“Off to the sharks,” I muttered as I plunged into the water. The English Channel swallowed me up, the blue sky above fading into cold, suffocating darkness. I barely made it to the surface, gasping for air, and caught one last glimpse of themmy son Oliver and his wife, Imogenleaning against the railing, champagne glasses raised in a mocking toast.
At seventy-one, I wasnt as spry as I used to be, but years of early-morning swims in Cornwall had toughened me up. My arms burned as I fought the current, but survival wasnt new to me. Id clawed my way up from a builders son to a property tycoon with a fortune worth millions. And now my own flesh and blood had tossed me aside like rubbish.
For years, Id sensed Imogens smile was more calculation than kindness. It was all about designer handbags, Instagram perfection, and whispered “future plans.” Oliver, my only son, had been drifting since uni, spoiled by wealth. I told myself hed find his footing, that hed grow the backbone Id always carried. But that night, under the yachts glow, I realised whod really shaped himImogen.
The salt stung my eyes as I swam toward the shadowy coastline. The distance was brutal, but my rage burned hotter than the tide. Every stroke was fuelled by betrayal. By the time I dragged myself onto the pebbled shore hours later, my muscles screamedbut my mind had never been clearer.
If they wanted me dead, fineId let them think theyd won. But once they crept back into my London townhouse, dripping with arrogance, Id be waiting. And Id make sure they regretted it. Id give them a “gift” theyd never forget.
Oliver and Imogen returned to the office three days later, their story flawless. “A tragic accident,” Imogen recited to the staff, her eyes glistening as she accepted condolences. They told the coastguard Id fallen overboard, too old to fight the waves. No body, just paperwork and hollow sympathy.
In the library, surrounded by oak shelves, they popped open champagne. Their laughter rang with smug victory. But when Imogen grabbed the remote, the telly flickered to lifenot with the news, but with my face.
“Surprise,” I said in the recording. My calm, steady voice cut through the room like a knife.
Olivers glass slipped from his hand. Imogens lips parted, but no words came out.
The video played on. “If youre seeing this, youve tried to take whats mine. You want the money? Fine. But heres the truth about what youve inherited.”
Id seen the betrayal coming years ago. My solicitor, a man Id trusted since I was seventeen, had helped me set up a trust. If I died under suspicious circumstances, the fortune would pass to Oliverbut every penny would go to charities, veterans homes, and scholarships. Imogen had always sneered at my donations, calling them “guilt money.” She never realised it was my escape plan.
“Ten million quid,” I said onscreen, “and itll slip through your fingers unless you earn itbrick by brick, deal by deal, sacrifice by sacrifice.”
The recording ended in silence. Then came the real blow. I walked through the library door, alive and well. My suit crisp, my stance unbroken, the fresh cut on my temple the only sign of my ordeal. Oliver went pale, his knees buckling like a child caught stealing biscuits. Imogen, though, stood rigid, her eyes sharp as a poker player going all-in.
“You should be dead,” she spat.
“And yet here I am,” I said. “Consider this my gift to you both: freedom. Freedom from me, from the money you clearly love more than family. Pack your bags. By sunrise, youre out of this house, out of my company, out of my life. You wanted me gone? Now youre the ones leaving.”
Imogen wasnt one to surrender quietly. “You cant cut us off like this,” she snapped, pacing like a trapped fox. “Olivers your son. You owe him everything.”
Oliver stayed silent, sweat beading on his forehead. He looked between us, torn and cowardly.
“Owe him?” I barked. “I gave him every chanceuni, a job at the firm, a seat at the table. And what did he do with it? Let his wife turn him against his own father.”
Imogens smirk returned. “You really think the police will take your word over ours? A paranoid old man accusing his son of murder? Youve got no proof.”
“Wrong,” I said.
From my desk drawer, I pulled out the waterproof pouch Id strapped to my waist before Imogen pushed me. Inside was a GoPro. Its footage showed it allImogens icy whisper, “Time to meet the sharks,” and Olivers laughter.
Olivers face drained of colour. Imogen lunged, but I stepped back. “One copys with my solicitor. Anothers in a safe. Try anything, and the whole world sees it.”
The fight was over. Oliver collapsed into a chair, head in his hands. Imogen, though, just smoothed her dress and gave a cold smile. “Youre a cruel man,” she said softly. “You dont want a sonyou want a soldier. Maybe you were never capable of love.”
Her words stung, but only for a moment. I had loved my son. Part of me still did. But love wasnt blind anymore.
At dawn, their suitcases sat by the door. I watched them leave in silence, the gravel crunching like shattered shackles.
For the first time in years, the house was quiettoo quiet. I poured myself a cuppa and sank into my leather chair. My strength was back, my life reclaimed.
But the money felt heavier now. Betrayal had tarnished its shine. So, in the weeks that followed, I called charities, signed papers, and gave my wealth to those whod value it. The veterans got homes. The students got grants. The hospitals got equipment.
That was the real gift. Not revenge, not survivalbut turning greed into something good. As for Oliver? Maybe one day Id hear from himas a thief begging for cash or a man seeking forgiveness.
Until then, the sharks would always be circling in the water between us.
