“Time to meet the sharks,” my daughter-in-law murmured before shoving me overboard. My son stood by, grinning, as the waves swallowed me whole. His aim? To seize my fortune of eight million pounds.
“Exit to the sharks,” I muttered as I plunged into the sea. The English Channel enveloped me, the bright sky above fading into cold, suffocating darkness. Gasping, I surfaced just in time to see them one last timemy son, Edward, and his wife, Beatriceleaning against the yachts railing, champagne flutes raised in mocking triumph.
At seventy-one, I was no longer the nimble man whod once scaled scaffolding, but years of morning swims off the Cornish coast had hardened me against the sea. My limbs ached as I fought the current, but survival was nothing new. Id clawed my way up from a bricklayers son to a property tycoon worth millions. And now my own flesh and blood had cast me aside like rubbish.
For years, Id sensed Beatrices smile was all cold calculationher warmth reserved for designer gowns, society portraits, and whispered plans for my wealth. Edward, my only son, had drifted since Oxford, smothered by privilege. Id told myself hed find his spine, that hed inherit the grit Id carried in my pocket like a sovereign. But that night, under the yachts golden glow, I saw the truth: Beatrice had become his backbone.
Salt stung my eyes as I struggled toward the shadowed shore. The swim was brutal, but fury drove me harder than the tide. Every stroke was laced with betrayal. When I finally dragged myself onto the pebbled beach hours later, my body screamedbut my mind had never been clearer.
If they thought me weak, so be it. Let them taste their victory. But once they returned to my London townhouse, smug and unsuspecting, theyd find me waiting. And Id give them a “gift” theyd never outlive.
Three days later, Edward and Beatrice arrived at the Mayfair office, their faces perfectly composed. “A dreadful accident,” Beatrice told the staff, her eyes glassy with rehearsed grief. Theyd informed the Coast Guard Id fallen overboardtoo frail to survive. No body, just paperwork and lies.
In the library, surrounded by mahogany and leather, they toasted their success. Their laughter rang with triumphuntil Beatrice clicked the remote. The screen flickered not to news, but to my face.
“Surprise,” I said in the recording. My voice, steady and quiet, cut through the room like a blade.
Edwards glass shattered on the floor. Beatrices lips parted, but no words came.
The video played on. “If youre seeing this, youve tried to steal what I built. Want the money? Take it. But know what youve truly inherited.”
Id seen this betrayal coming years ago. My solicitor, a man Id trusted since my youth, had helped me establish a trust. If I died under suspicious circumstances, the fortune would pass to Edwardbut every penny would flow to charities, veterans homes, and scholarships. Beatrice had always scoffed at my philanthropy, calling it “guilt of an old fool.” She never guessed it was my escape route.
“Eight million pounds,” I said onscreen, “and not a farthing will line your pockets unless you earn it as I didbrick by brick, sacrifice by sacrifice.”
The screen went dark. Silence settled over the room.
Then came the final blow. I strode through the library door, very much alive. My suit crisp, my stance unbroken, the gash on my temple the only mark of my ordeal. Edward went white, knees buckling like a boy caught stealing sweets. Beatrice, though, stood rigid, her eyes sharp as a cardsharps.
“You should be dead,” she spat.
“And yet here I stand,” I replied. “This is my gift to you both: freedom. Freedom from me, from the fortune you value above family. Pack your things. By dawn, youll be gone from this house, my company, my life. The money you craved is now your curse.”
Beatrice wasnt one to surrender quietly. “You cant cut us off,” she seethed, pacing like a trapped fox. “Edward is your son. You owe him.”
Edward stayed silent, sweating and shattered.
“Owe him?” I snapped. “I gave him every advantageEton, Oxford, a place at the firm. And how did he repay me? By plotting my murder.”
Beatrices smirk returned. “Whod believe a doddering old man over us? Youve no proof.”
“Youre mistaken,” I said.
From my desk, I drew a waterproof pouchthe one Id strapped to my wrist before Beatrice pushed me. Inside was a camera. Its footage held her icy whisper”Time to meet the sharks”and Edwards laughter.
Edward crumpled into a chair. Beatrice lunged, but I stepped aside. “Copies are with my solicitor and the press. Try anything, and the world sees.”
The fight drained from them. Edward wept into his hands. Beatrice merely straightened her dress, her voice venomous. “Youre a cruel man. You never wanted a sonjust a successor. Perhaps you were never capable of love.”
Her words stung, but not for long. I had loved my son. Some part of me still did. But love could no longer blind me.
At dawn, their trunks waited by the door. I watched them leave in silence, gravel crunching like shattered chains.
For the first time in years, the house was quiettoo quiet. I poured a brandy in the library and sank into my chair. My strength remained, my life reclaimed.
Yet the fortune felt heavier now, its gleam tarnished. So in the weeks that followed, I gave it awayto hospitals, to soldiers homes, to students whod cherish it more than Beatrice ever had.
That was the true “gift.” Not vengeance, not survival, but turning a legacy of greed into one of grace.
As for Edward? Perhaps one day hell returneither as a beggar or a penitent.
Until then, the sharks will always lurk in the waters between us.
