Chapter 2 - The Interrogation of Gregory Hartman
The digital clock on the cabin wall glowed silently, reading 8:45 PM. Outside, the dark expanse of the Atlantic Ocean rolled against the hull, completely indifferent to the psychological earthquake that had just shattered our marriage fifty minutes after it began.
Gregory was still tied securely to the armchair, his expensive suit wrinkled, his hair disheveled, and his breathing erratic. The shock of being physically dismantled by a woman he had assumed was docile and submissive had broken something fragile in his ego.
“Untie me, Ashlynn,” he muttered, trying to sound authoritative, though his voice cracked on the final syllable. “This has gone far enough. It was a joke. A family tradition. My father always told me—s—”
“Your father is a domestic abuser who terrorized your mother into silence,” I interrupted, stepping forward until I stood directly under the warm sconce lighting of the suite. I rested my weight on my left foot, hands clasped loosely in front of me, adopting the posture I used to use when interrogating recruits who thought they could outsmart the corps. “And you thought you inherited the right to do the same.”
Gregory swallowed hard, his eyes darting toward the balcony doors as if contemplating a leap into the dark ocean. “You don't understand our world. In our circles, men maintain order. Women adapt. You were supposed to fall in line after one scare.”
“A scare?” I let out a dry, humourless laugh that lacked any warmth. “Gregory, for four years, I trained men twice your size how to disarm combatants, neutralize threats, and survive high-stress kill zones. You brought a baseball bat to a gunfight with someone who spent her twenties treating aluminum bats like warm-up toys.”
“What do you want?” he finally whimpered, the bluster completely evaporating from his tone. “Money? A fast-track divorce settlement? Name your price. Just don’t… don’t ruin my career. My father is putting me in charge of the North American portfolio next month. If word gets out that my wife beat me up on our honeymoon, I’ll be a laughingstock.”
I pulled up a chair opposite him, sitting down and resting my elbows on my knees. I looked at him—really looked at him—and felt a profound sense of pity mixed with cold resolve.
“You spent a year constructing a character for me,” I said quietly. “You courted me at upscale charity galas, bought me designer heels, praised my ambition because it made you look good on your arm, and waited until you had me trapped on a ship in the middle of international waters to drop the mask.”
“I love you,” he lied automatically, his eyes shifting nervously.
“No, Gregory. You don't even know me,” I replied. “You loved the idea of subduing someone you perceived as strong because it inflated your hollow sense of masculinity. But here is what is going to happen next.”
I pulled out his phone from my pocket and unlocked it using his thumb while he squirmed helplessly in the chair.
“You are going to unlock your cloud storage, and you are going to transfer every single file, text, and financial document you have concerning your father’s business dealings, offshore accounts, and the corporate slush funds you’ve bragged about over drinks. And then, when the ship docks at our first port of call in the Bahamas tomorrow morning, you are going to walk off this vessel flanked by local maritime police, hand over a full written confession of your assault, and sign an immediate, unconditional annulment.”
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Gregory’s face turned the color of ash. “You can’t do that. That’s blackmail! That’s corporate espionage!”
“It’s self-defense and discovery,” I corrected smoothly, tapping the screen. “And trust me, Gregory. Compared to what I could do to you with my bare hands, handing you over to federal investigators is me being extraordinarily gentle.”
