“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 eight-million-pound fortune.
“Exit to the sharks,” I muttered as I plunged into the sea. The English Channel swallowed me instantly. The bright sky above blurred into cold, suffocating darkness. Gasping for air, I caught one last glimpse of themmy son William and his wife, Charlotteleaning against the railing, champagne glasses raised in mock celebration.
At seventy-one, I was no longer the spry adventurer of my youth, but years of morning swims in Cornwall had toughened me against the sea. My limbs ached as I fought the current, but survival was second nature. Id clawed my way up from a bricklayers son to a property tycoon worth millions. And now my own flesh and blood had tossed me aside like rubbish.
For years, Id sensed Charlottes smile hid calculations, not warmthher gleam reserved for designer handbags, staged Instagram snaps, and whispered “future plans.” William, my only son, had drifted since university, smothered by privilege. Id told myself hed find his spine, that hed inherit the grit Id carried in my pocket like a lucky coin. But that night, under the yachts golden glow, I realised who truly wore his backbone: Charlotte.
Salt stung my eyes as I pushed toward the shadowed shore. The swim was brutal, but rage outmatched the tide. Every stroke was fuelled by betrayal. When I finally dragged myself onto the pebbled beach, muscles screaming, my mind had never been clearer.
If they wanted me gone for my fortune, finelet them taste their hollow victory. But once they stepped into my home, smug and unsuspecting, theyd find me waiting. And Id give them a “gift” theyd never forget.
Three days later, William and Charlotte returned to the London office, their faces perfectly blank. “A tragic accident,” Charlotte rehearsed for the staff, eyes glistening with practised grief. They told the coastguard Id slipped overboard, too frail to survive. No body was foundjust paperwork and hollow condolences.
In the oak-panelled library, they toasted with vintage whisky, laughter ringing with triumph. But when Charlotte grabbed the remote, the screen flared to lifenot with news, but my face.
“Surprise,” my recording began, voice steady. Williams glass slipped from his grip. Charlottes lips parted, soundless.
The video played on. “If youre seeing this, youve tried to take what isnt yours. Want the money? Fine. But know the truth of what youve inherited.”
Id foreseen their betrayal years ago. My solicitor, a trusted friend since my teens, had helped me set up a trust. If I died under suspicious circumstances, the fortune would pass to Williambut every penny would funnel to charities, shelters, and scholarships. Charlotte had scoffed at my donations, calling them “guilt cheques.” She never guessed they were my safeguard.
“Eight million pounds,” I said onscreen, “and the weight of every brick I laid to earn it. Unless you spend it as I didsacrifice by sacrifice.”
The screen went dark. Silence thickened.
Then came the final blow. I strode through the library door, alive and unbroken. My suit crisp, my stance unshaken, the gash on my temple the only proof of my ordeal. William went pale, knees buckling like a boy caught stealing biscuits. Charlotte, however, stood rigid, eyes sharp as a cardsharps.
“You should be dead,” she spat.
“And yet here I am,” I replied. “This is my gift to you both: freedom. From me. From the money you prized above family. Youll pack tonight. By dawn, youll be gone from this house, my company, my life. The fortune you craved? Its yoursbut so is the emptiness that comes with it.”
Charlotte wasnt one to surrender quietly. “You cant cut us off,” she seethed, pacing like a trapped fox. “Williams your son. You owe him.”
William stayed silent, sweat beading on his brow, torn but too cowardly to speak.
“Owe him?” I snapped. “I gave him every advantageuniversity, a place in the firm, a seat at the table. And what did he do? Let you turn him against his own father.”
Charlottes smirk returned. “You think the police will believe a paranoid old man over us? Youve no proof.”
“Youre mistaken,” I said.
From my desk, I retrieved a waterproof pouchthe one strapped to me when Charlotte pushed me. Inside was a GoPro, its footage crystal clear: Charlottes chilling whisper, Williams laughter.
William crumpled into a chair. Charlotte lunged, but I stepped aside. “Copies are with my solicitor and the press. Try anything, and the world sees it.”
The fight drained from them. William hid his face. Charlotte smoothed her dress, icy calm. “Youre cruel,” she said. “You wanted a heir, not a son. Maybe you never knew how to love.”
Her words stung, but briefly. I had loved my son. Some part of me still did. But love couldnt be blind forever.
At dawn, their suitcases waited by the door. I watched them leave, gravel crunching like shattered chains.
The house fell silenttoo silent. In the library, I sipped tea in my favourite armchair, my life reclaimed. The money, though, felt heavier. Betrayal had tarnished its shine. So I began calls, signed cheques, diverted my wealth to those whod cherish itveterans, students, hospitals.
That was the true “gift.” Not vengeance, nor survival, but transforming a legacy of greed into one of grace.
And William? Perhaps one day hell returnas a beggar or a penitent.
Until then, the sharks will linger in the waters between us.
