For His Mistresss Surprise Honeymoon He Had Me Gutted on the Deck of His Yacht

He always cherished me, swearing that his only birthday wish, year after year, was for us to have a child. For our fifth anniversary, I clutched the positive pregnancy test in my purse and slipped aboard the same yacht, melting into the masked ball I knew he was hosting. I was going to give him the ultimate surprise. Instead, I found him on the starlit deck with another woman, wrapped in an embrace that screamed honeymoon, not a business gala. My world tilted. I stumbled, knocking over a tower of champagne flutes. The crash echoed in the sudden silence. His brow furrowed in annoyance. He didn't recognize me behind the Venetian mask and elaborate makeup. He snapped his fingers, and his security team materialized from the shadows. “Get this damn trash out of my sight,” he snarled, his voice a low thunder that vibrated through the deck. “She’s ruining the surprise honeymoon I planned for my wife.” He then turned to the woman in his arms, his voice softening to a caress. “Sweetheart, you’ve always wanted to see sharks up close, haven’t you? We’ll give them a little taste. Bleed her, and draw them in.” I dropped to my knees, the words catching in my throat, ready to beg, to tell him I was pregnant. But he just sneered, his polished Italian shoe connecting with my stomach in a brutal kick. “Oh, look at that,” he drawled, a cruel smirk playing on his lips as I gasped for air. “A pregnant bitch. Even better. My girl gets to see what a live feeding looks like.” Then, he pressed the cold muzzle of a pistol to my knee. “Break her legs first. I don’t want her spoiling the show.” 1 “Damn it, she’s a tough one, isn’t she?” Damien Blackwood’s voice was a blade of ice from somewhere above me. The kick had sent me flying, my back slamming against the ship's railing with a sickening crack. A supernova of pain exploded from my spine, shooting straight to my skull. I curled into a ball on the cold teak deck, my hands instinctively shielding my abdomen. Our baby. The child Damien and I had prayed for, for five long years. Thick, theatrical makeup, meant for the masquerade, was now a grotesque, colorful paste streaked with cold sweat and tears. I tried to speak, to scream his name, but a rough hand tangled in my hair, yanking my head back. He shoved my face into a towering anniversary cake on a nearby table. Buttercream and sugary frosting clogged my nose and mouth. The cloying sweetness mingled with the primal terror of suffocation, and I began to thrash wildly. And the architect of this nightmare was my husband of five years, Damien. I heard a woman’s saccharine voice. “Darling, don't you think this is a bit much?” Damien chuckled, a cold, empty sound. He pulled her waist possessively against his. “Baby, you’re too kind. This piece of trash ruined our honeymoon. She doesn’t get to walk away so easily. You wanted to see sharks? I’m giving you a front-row seat.” My blood ran cold. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I would never have believed it. This vicious, terrifying monster was the same man who had worshipped the ground I walked on. We met in college, a whirlwind romance that led to the altar. In the five years since, he had carved my name into the city’s list of untouchables, a name whispered with fear and respect in circles both legal and not. Even the corner hustlers would change direction if they saw me carrying a latte. The day he slipped the ring on my finger, a new file appeared in his office safe: the deed to every asset, every company, every shell corporation, with my name signed as the sole beneficiary. And now, the man who built a fortress around me was the one tearing me apart. Before I could process the whiplash, Damien snapped his fingers. Two of his men hoisted me up by my arms. “Bleed her,” he ordered, his tone as casual as if he were ordering dinner. “Lure them in.” My voice, when it finally came, was a raw, ragged shriek. I clawed at the guards, my nails digging bloody furrows into their forearms. The next second, a leather shoe ground down on my fingers, a pain so sharp and absolute it felt like a thousand needles driving into the bone. I heard the distinct crack of my own knuckles breaking. This wasn't a threat. This was real. Primal survival instinct took over. I swallowed my pride, the agony, everything. I shuffled forward on my shattered knees, my hand trembling as I grabbed the cuff of his tailored trousers. Tears mixed with the frosting smeared across my face. “Mmph…” I tried to speak, but my throat was still blocked with cake. I clutched my stomach as a violent cramp seized me, sharp and terrifying. “Ah!” A strangled cry escaped my lips. I collapsed, and a river of crimson flowed down the inside of my thighs, staining the pristine deck a shocking, lurid red. The violent movement dislodged a folded piece of paper from my dress pocket. It fluttered to the deck, landing right in Damien’s line of sight. My name at the top was obscured by a fold, but the words [CONFIRMED PREGNANCY] were stark and clear under the moonlight. He glanced down, his gaze colder than the ocean itself. “Well, would you look at that,” he said, a slow, cruel smile spreading across his face. “A pregnant bitch. Perfect. Now my baby gets to see what it looks like when you feed a fetus to the sharks.” I lay twisted on the deck, my body a raging fire of pain. The blood pooled around me. No! I shook my head desperately, trying to crawl, to move, to do anything. The cramping in my abdomen was so intense it was stealing my thoughts. Damien watched me from above, that monstrous smile still playing on his lips. Then, he leveled the gun at my knee again. “Break her legs,” he repeated, his voice dangerously soft. “I don’t want her thrashing around and ruining the main event.” 2 I forced my heavy eyelids open, seeing only the merciless silhouette of my husband against the moon. In that instant, despair consumed me whole. A deafening BANG ripped through the night. The bullet tore through my kneecap. I tried to scream, but they had stuffed a rag in my mouth, turning my agony into a muffled, pathetic whimper. Blood gushed from the wound, spreading across the deck in a warm, sickening tide. Through a haze of excruciating pain, I finally got a clear look at the woman’s face. It was Hannah. A university student Damien had recently sponsored through a new charity initiative. She stood beside him in a pure white sundress, looking like some fragile, innocent blossom. But her eyes, fixed on me, were glittering with a rabid excitement. She was devouring the sight of my suffering. “Darling, look at all that blood!” she cooed, feigning fear as she burrowed into Damien’s chest. The corners of her mouth, however, were twitching, fighting a triumphant smirk. Damien stroked her back soothingly. “Don’t be scared, baby. Filth like this isn’t worth your sympathy.” My heart felt like it was being ripped to shreds. Three months ago, Damien had his arm around me, telling me he wanted to set up a scholarship for underprivileged students. He’d asked me to help him vet the candidates. I was the one who chose Hannah’s file. Parents deceased, supporting herself on academic scholarships. The girl in the photograph had such clear, innocent eyes. Damien had even praised my choice. You have a good heart, Ava. The irony was a blade twisting in my gut. “Hoist her up,” Damien commanded, nudging my blood-soaked chin with the toe of his shoe. “The blood is more effective if it drips into the sea, one drop at a time.” As the cold iron chains were fastened around my wrists and ankles, the party on the other side of the deck continued, the sound of popping champagne corks a festive counterpoint to my torture. They suspended me upside down over the side of the yacht. The sea wind whipped my hair, carrying the coppery scent of my own blood into my nostrils. The bullet hole in my knee throbbed, a relentless fountain of heat that trickled down my leg, over my foot, and dripped into the dark water below. Each drop bloomed into a dark flower on the navy-blue surface of the ocean. “Darling, look!” Hannah suddenly shrieked, pointing. In the moonlight, several dorsal fins sliced through the waves. The sleek, gray-blue skin of the sharks glinted with a cold, dead light as they circled below. The pain was making my vision swim, but I could still clearly see one of Damien’s men—a man who usually called me “Mrs. Blackwood” with a respectful nod—plunge a dagger into my abdomen and twist. A guttural, animalistic sound tore from my throat. Suddenly, the first shark breached the surface, its jaws gaping. Rows of serrated white teeth were less than two feet from my stomach. A foul, fishy spray coated my chest. “Time it,” Damien said, toying with a lock of Hannah’s hair. “Cut the baby out of her. Let’s see how long the bitch lasts after that.” My world turned crimson. One of Damien’s men grinned grotesquely as he thrust his hand into the open wound in my belly. His fingers were like icy iron tongs, churning inside me. My body convulsed in a violent spasm of agony, but I couldn't make a sound. My throat was already shredded from screaming. “You stupid bitch,” he whispered in my ear, his breath hot and foul. “You should have known better than to cross the boss.” Then, with a savage tug, he ripped something vital from my body. A gush of warm liquid, and a profound, hollow emptiness. The man held up my bloody uterus, a gruesome trophy in the moonlight. My child. The child Damien and I had wanted for five years was now a prop in a blood sport. “Throw it in,” Damien commanded, lighting a cigar with an indifferent flick of his wrist. My womb was tossed into the sea, trailing an arc of blood through the air. The water below erupted into a frenzy. The gray-blue fins churned the ocean into a froth of white water and blood. The sound of tearing flesh was sickening, visceral, and it echoed in the sudden, dead silence of my soul. “The sharks still look hungry!” Hannah chirped, tilting her head with a look of angelic innocence. “Darling, is there anything else we can feed them?” Damien gestured towards me with his cigar. “We’ve still got one right here, don’t we?” 3 Hannah covered her mouth, a perfect portrait of feigned shock. “Oh, can we really? I’m still a little scared.” Damien exhaled a plume of smoke, pinching her cheek with fond indulgence. “Whatever you want, baby. I told you, you can play however you like. I’ve always got your back.” My blood-soaked body was hauled back onto the deck. Hannah, in her pristine white dress, approached me, the sea breeze making her skirt blossom around her like a flower. She leaned in close, her voice a conspiratorial whisper only I could hear. “How does it feel, Ava? To be tortured by your own husband?” My pupils constricted. A strangled, rattling sound escaped my throat. She knew. She knew who I was the entire time. Her fingers, tipped with baby-pink nail polish, traced the wound on my knee before she jabbed a nail deep into the raw flesh. “Aaargh!” A hoarse scream finally tore from my raw throat. My vision went black for a second. “The position of Mrs. Blackwood,” she murmured with a soft laugh. “I’ve wanted it for a very, very long time.” She smiled sweetly. “Don’t worry. After you’re dead, I’ll take very good care of Damien for you.” The cold glint of the dagger flashed before my eyes. My costume was ripped open, and the blade traced a line across my skin. First the cold, then a searing, fiery pain. Beads of blood welled up, merging into a thin red stream. “Did you forget to eat breakfast?” Hannah scolded the guard, her voice as sweet as melting honey. “Put some muscle into it. I want the cuts deeper!” Then I was hanging over the edge again, and this time, they plunged me into the ocean. The shock of the frigid, salty water was absolute. It flooded my nostrils, and the sting of the salt in my countless wounds felt like a thousand steel needles piercing every inch of my body. The sharks began to circle closer, their rough skin grazing my toes, the chilling promise of their teeth a palpable presence in the dark water. They hauled me up again, soaked and shivering. The seawater had washed away the layers of cake and makeup. A cold wind howled, and my wet hair was plastered across my face, obscuring my vision. Suddenly, one of the younger guards stumbled back, his voice trembling. “Holy shit! Doesn't this woman… doesn’t she look exactly like the boss’s wife?!” Another guard laughed dismissively. “Are you crazy? What would Mrs. Blackwood be doing here?” But as he spoke, a fierce gust of wind swept across the deck. It caught the folded pregnancy report, sending it tumbling through the air. It danced on the breeze before finally settling beside the polished leather of Damien’s shoe. As if guided by some unseen hand, he glanced down, an air of casual annoyance on his face. He looked at the paper. And then, his entire body went rigid. His pupils contracted to pinpricks. “That’s impossible!” He bent down, his fingers snatching the paper, clutching it so tightly his knuckles turned white, threatening to shred it. On the pregnancy report, washed partially clean by the sea spray but still terrifyingly legible, was my name. Ava Blackwood. Pregnancy: 6 Weeks. A sound ripped from his throat, something animal and broken, a roar of pure, unadulterated agony that tore through the night. “GET HER UP!!!”

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