Love Lost to Greed

The water was already at my knees when I realized the life jacket wouldn't hold. My fingers worked frantically at the broken buckle, the frayed strap coming apart in my hands like rotted rope. The cabin groaned around us, windows exploding inward as the flood surge hit with the force of a freight train.

"Tucker!" I called out, panic threading through my voice as I held up the useless jacket. "This one's completely broken. I need—"

But he was already moving toward the back door with Blaire, both of them secure in their intact life jackets. The water was rising so fast now that it reached my waist, the current tugging at my legs with hungry fingers.

"Tucker, wait!" I stumbled after them, my injured leg screaming as I fought against the rushing water. "I can't swim, you know I can't—"

He turned then, and the look on his face stopped me cold. There was no concern, no love, no recognition of three years together. Just cold calculation and something that looked almost like irritation.

"Sorry, Kenna," he said, his voice flat. "But Blaire's connections are too important to risk."

The words hit me harder than the flood. "What are you talking about? Tucker, please, just help me get to—"

"She's going to slow us down," Blaire said from behind him, her voice carrying that same dismissive tone she'd used about the weather. "We need to move fast."

I reached for Tucker's hand, desperation making me clumsy. "Please, I'm begging you. Just help me get outside and—"

His foot connected with my chest.

The kick wasn't gentle. It wasn't hesitant. It was deliberate, forceful, designed to send me backward into the churning water that had now claimed the entire cabin floor. I went under immediately, the broken life jacket tangling around my arms like a shroud.

When I surfaced, gasping and choking, I saw them both standing in the doorway. Tucker's face was set in grim determination, while Blaire watched with something that looked almost like satisfaction.

"Tucker!" I screamed, but the current was already pulling me away from the cabin, toward the violent rapids where the lake met the canyon. "Tucker, please!"

He didn't move. Neither did she.

The water closed over my head again, and this time I couldn't find the surface. My lungs burned as I tumbled in the muddy torrent, debris striking my body like clubs. Tree branches, pieces of other cabins, chunks of concrete—all of it spinning in the same deadly dance that was dragging me toward the rocks.

I couldn't swim. I'd never learned, despite growing up with every privilege money could buy. The irony would have been laughable if I weren't drowning.

My hand found my watch—the one piece of my real life I'd never removed. My father had insisted on the emergency beacon, and I'd worn it like a talisman for three years without ever needing it. Now, as the current slammed me into a submerged log, I pressed the hidden button with the last of my strength.

The signal was encrypted, military-grade, designed to cut through any interference and reach Carter Industries' security network within seconds. As consciousness began to slip away, I wondered if it would be fast enough.

The water filled my lungs, and everything went black.

Somewhere above the roar of the flood, I heard the distinctive whop-whop-whop of helicopter rotors cutting through the storm. The sound grew louder, more urgent, accompanied by voices shouting coordinates and medical terminology I couldn't quite grasp.

Strong hands pulled me from the water, professional and efficient. Oxygen flooded my lungs through a mask as I was lifted into the aircraft, my body strapped to a rescue board with practiced precision.

Through the helicopter's open door, I caught a glimpse of Tucker and Blaire standing on higher ground near the destroyed cabin. They were staring up at the helicopter with expressions of complete shock, their mouths hanging open as they watched the professional rescue operation unfold.

The Carter Industries logo was clearly visible on the aircraft's side.

As we lifted away from the flood zone, I saw Tucker grab Blaire's arm, his face pale with sudden understanding. They were both pointing at the helicopter, their animated gestures suggesting frantic questions neither could answer.

Who was Kenna Carter, really? And what kind of resources did she have access to that could mobilize a private rescue helicopter in the middle of a natural disaster?

The answers would come soon enough. But first, I had to survive.