“Alright, let me tell you this wild storyso, my daughter-in-law leans in and whispers, ‘Time to meet the sharks,’ right before shoving me overboard. My son just stands there grinning as the waves swallow me whole. All he wanted was my ten-million-pound fortune.
‘Exit to the sharks,’ I mutter as I plunge into the English Channel. The water swallows me, the sky above fading into nothing but cold, suffocating blue. I barely make it to the surface, coughing up seawater, and there they aremy son Oliver and his wife, Penelopeleaning against the yachts railing, clinking champagne glasses like theyve just won the lottery.
At seventy-one, Im not exactly the spry bloke I used to be, but years of early morning swims in Brighton 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 bricklayers son to a property mogul worth millions. And now my own flesh and blood was tossing me aside like rubbish.
Id always suspected Penelopes smile was more about designer handbags and Instagram glam than genuine warmth. Oliver, my only son, had been coasting since uni, spoiled rotten by luxury. I kept telling myself hed grow a spine, toughen up like I had. But that night, under the yachts golden lights, I realisedhis backbone was Penelope.
Saltwater stung my eyes as I swam toward the shadowy shoreline. The distance was brutal, but my rage burned hotter than the tide. Every stroke was fuelled by betrayal. Hours later, I dragged myself onto the pebbled beach, muscles screaming, but my mind sharper than it had been in decades.
If they wanted me dead for my money, fineId let them think theyd won. But once they stepped foot in my London townhouse, dripping with seawater and guilt, theyd find me waiting. And oh, Id give them a ‘gift’ theyd never forget.
Three days later, Oliver and Penelope waltzed into the office, faces perfectly blank. ‘A tragic accident,’ Penelope rehearsed to the staff, eyes glistening with fake tears. They told the coastguard Id fallen overboardtoo old to fight the waves. No body, just paperwork and lies.
Back in the study, surrounded by mahogany shelves, they cracked open a bottle of whisky, laughing like theyd pulled off the perfect crime. But when Penelope grabbed the remote, the TV didnt flash the newsit showed my face.
‘Surprise,’ I said in the recording. My voice was calm, steady.
Olivers glass slipped from his hand. Penelopes mouth hung open, no clever comeback ready.
The video played. ‘If youre watching this, you tried to take what wasnt yours. Want the money? Fine. But heres the catch.’
Id seen this coming years ago. My solicitor, a bloke Id trusted since I was seventeen, helped me set up a trust. If I died ‘suspiciously,’ every penny would go to charityveterans homes, scholarships, hospitals. Penelope always mocked my donations, calling it ‘guilt money.’ She never guessed it was my insurance policy.
‘Ten million quid,’ I said on screen, ‘and not a penny will line your pockets unless you earn it like I didbrick by brick, sacrifice by sacrifice.’
The recording ended. Silence.
Thenthe real twist. I walked in, very much alive. Suit pressed, stance firm, the gash on my temple the only proof of their little stunt. Oliver turned ghost-white, knees buckling like a kid caught stealing sweets. Penelope just glared, 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 giftfreedom. From me, from the money you clearly love more than family. Pack your bags. By sunrise, youre gonefrom this house, my company, everything.’
Penelope wasnt one to surrender. ‘You cant cut us out!’ she snapped, pacing like a caged fox. ‘Olivers your son. You owe him.’
Oliver stayed silent, sweating bullets, too cowardly to pick a side.
‘Owe him?’ I barked. ‘I gave him every chanceuni, a job, a seat at the table. And what did he do? Helped plot his own fathers murder.’
Penelope smirked. ‘You really think the police will take your word over ours? A doddering old man crying foul? Youve got no proof.’
‘Wrong,’ I said.
From my desk, I pulled a waterproof pouchthe one Id strapped to my belt before Penelope pushed me. Inside? A GoPro. The footage was clear: Penelopes whisper, ‘Time to meet the sharks,’ and Olivers laughter.
Oliver looked ready to faint. Penelope lunged, but I stepped back. ‘Copies are with my solicitor and the press. Try anything, and the world sees it.’
Game over. Oliver collapsed into a chair, head in hands. Penelope just glared, icy as ever. ‘Youre cruel,’ she hissed. ‘You dont want a sonyou want a puppet. Maybe you never knew how to love.’
It stung, but only for a second. I *had* loved him. Still did, buried deep. But love wasnt blind anymore.
At dawn, their suitcases waited by the door. I watched them leave, gravel crunching like snapping chains.
The house was quiettoo quiet. I poured a cuppa, sank into my leather chair, and exhaled. Id won. My life was mine again.
But the money felt heavier now, tarnished. So in the weeks that followed, I rang up charities, signed cheques, diverted my fortune to causes that actually mattered. Veterans got homes, students got grants, hospitals got equipment.
*That* was the real gift. Not revenge, not survivalbut turning greed into something good. As for Oliver? Maybe one day hell crawl backeither as a beggar or a man seeking forgiveness.
Till then, the sharks will always be circling in the water between us.”
