Chapter 1

Introduction:

On their fourth wedding anniversary, Emma Bennett discovered that her husband, Adrian Hayes, had used the recording of her father’s final words in a promotional campaign for his company—without her permission.

When she confronted him, Adrian showed no remorse. Instead, he demanded that she apologize to the investors and stay out of the way of Vivian Clarke’s project.

Four years of marriage meant nothing against his business interests and favoritism.

Only then did Emma finally see how unrecognizable the marriage she had poured her heart into had become.

Emma’s POV

October 21. Our fourth wedding anniversary.

The zipper on the back of my evening gown had caught below my shoulder blades. I raised my elbows and tried twice to reach it.

The bedroom door opened, and Adrian Hayes walked in.

He stopped behind me. His cool fingertips brushed my spine as he pulled the zipper all the way up.

“Why didn’t you ask the housekeeper?” Adrian met my eyes in the full-length mirror and adjusted the silk shawl over my shoulders. “The car’s waiting downstairs. Traffic’s bad. If we leave now, we’ll just make the opening.”

I turned and straightened his tie. “Weren’t we having dinner at your family’s house tonight? Why are we suddenly going to a company launch?”

“It’s our annual cultural tourism strategy launch. A few government reviewers will be there.”

Adrian took my wrist and led me toward the door, his voice unusually gentle. “Besides, there’s a special finale tonight. I’ve had people preparing it for almost six months. You’ve spent the past few years buried in the archives restoring old tapes. I want you to see what the company has accomplished in maritime heritage preservation. Consider it my fourth-anniversary gift to you.”

We settled into the back seat of the Bentley. Outside, a fine late-autumn rain was falling.

I leaned against the leather seat and watched Adrian study the event schedule on his tablet.

He had always been like this. He remembered my size, remembered that cold drinks upset my stomach, and remembered to make suitably impressive arrangements for every anniversary.

But in those arrangements, my only role was to sit in the audience, applaud, and smile at the right moments as Mrs. Hayes.

“We finished treating that batch of shipboard black-box tapes from the nineties this week,” I said softly, looking out the window. “Once things settle down, I’d like to organize some of the fishing-radio recordings we recovered into a small nonprofit exhibition.”

Adrian didn’t look up. His stylus swept across the screen. “A little exhibition that only a few hundred people will see is too much work. When our immersive digital museum opens at the end of the year, I’ll have them set aside a separate gallery for you. Just coordinate with Vivian for whatever resources you need.”

At the sound of Vivian’s name, my fingers curled almost imperceptibly against my knees.

Vivian Clarke was the Hayes Group’s brand director and Adrian’s former classmate from graduate school in London. Six months ago, as the company began preparing to go public, she had been brought straight into senior management. Since then, she had taken over almost all external communications and major projects.

Half an hour later, the car stopped outside the ballroom entrance of the InterContinental.

The main hall was brightly lit. Investors, reporters, and government officials filled the front rows. Adrian escorted me to the center of the first row. A few minutes later, the lights went down. Deep-blue ocean ripples glowed across an enormous curved holographic screen.

Vivian walked onto the main stage in a sharply tailored white evening suit. Her makeup was flawless, delicate diamonds glittered at her ears, and every movement carried the ease of someone well accustomed to wealth and influence.

“For the past three years, Hayes Cultural Tourism has been asking one question: how can we give a voice to the history sleeping beneath the sea?” Vivian stood beneath the spotlight, her voice carrying through the surround-sound system. “Tonight, on behalf of the Hayes Group, I’m proud to unveil our flagship cultural tourism project of the year—The Last Tide.”

Applause swept through the room.

Sitting in the front row, I froze the instant the image appeared on the screen.

An old lighthouse stood in a driving storm. Then a violent burst of static crackled from the speakers around the ballroom, distorted by the unmistakable noise of shedding magnetic tape.

“—This is Coast Guard Rescue Three. Winds at violent storm force. Taking on water to starboard! Repeat, taking on water to starboard—”

“Position, forty-one degrees fourteen minutes north, sixty-seven degrees west. All eleven trawler crew members transferred to the life raft! Rescue Three has lost power. Main engine room flooding. Request North Shore Base record our final heading…”

Heavy, ragged breathing mingled with the thunder of waves smashing against the hull.

The sound tore through me.

Every trace of color drained from my face. Even my lips were trembling.

It was the final recording my father, Henry Bennett, had left on the night of August 14, 1998, before his rescue boat sank during a search-and-rescue mission in the North Atlantic.

More specifically, it was the last, most private three minutes of the original reel-to-reel master labeled “SH-1998-0814”—the final words he had recorded on a backup unit before communications went dead. By the time the maritime authorities returned his belongings to my mother, the tape was badly water-damaged and stuck together. I had spent three full years in a temperature- and humidity-controlled room, separating it millimeter by millimeter, baking it, and digitizing it to recover his voice.

The contents were so painful that even my colleagues at the Maritime Sound Archive had never heard the whole recording. I kept it locked in the archive’s highest-security private safe. Once a year, on the anniversary of his death, I put on headphones and listened to it alone.

And now my father’s dying breaths and desperate calls for help had been set to a sweeping, sentimental orchestral score. They were being used to advertise real estate and a resort town, playing over the heads of hundreds of guests sipping drinks!

His hoarse voice continued through the speakers. In another moment, he would say those final words: “Tell Emma Daddy isn’t coming home.”

My mind went blank.

I shot to my feet, knocking over the gold-plated banquet chair behind me. It hit the carpet with a dull thud. Ignoring the startled looks around me, I gathered my skirt, rushed up the side steps, and planted myself between Vivian and the control console.

“Turn it off!” My voice shook with fury, but it carried across half the hall. “Turn the sound off right now!”

Waves still churned across the holographic screen. My father’s final message, spoken through blood in his throat, had been cut into an indistinct sigh. Then the gold investor logo for Hayes Bay Resort flashed onto the screen.

The room fell deathly silent. Red recording lights blinked on dozens of media cameras as every lens swung toward us.

Vivian appeared startled. She took half a step back, then quickly composed herself and muted her headset microphone. She looked at me with just the right amount of surprise and hurt. “Emma, what’s wrong? Is the bass too loud? Is it making you feel unwell?”

“Where did you get that recording?” I stared at her, my nails digging into my palms. “That is my father’s private property. Catalog number SH-1998-0814. It was locked in my private cold-storage vault at the archive. I have never signed any agreement allowing its public use! Who gave you permission to use it in an advertisement?”

Murmurs broke out across the audience. Several investors in the front row exchanged looks. Camera shutters fired in rapid bursts.

Vivian sighed and beckoned toward the wings. An assistant hurried over with a neatly bound blue folder.

She opened it to the final page and held it out with both hands. Her voice was quiet, but loud enough for the front row and the stage microphones to catch every word. “Emma, I know your father’s belongings mean a great deal to you. But The Last Tide is a major joint project between the company and the archive. All compliance procedures for the commercial adaptation of this recording were completed two weeks ago. We have the company representative’s signature and formal authorization from the rights holder.”

I looked down.

At the bottom of the Exclusive License Agreement for Commercial Development of Historical Audio Materials was a name.

Adrian Hayes.

Even the proxy signature line on the attached Family Consent Form bore Adrian’s handwriting.

An icy chill shot through me from head to toe. Shaking, I slowly turned toward the first row.

Adrian was already on his feet, walking toward the stage.

His expression was calm. There was no sign of panic. As he climbed the steps, he even gave a slight nod to the business partners seated below. Then he came to my side and put an arm around my cold shoulders. His grip was almost painfully tight—less reassurance than restraint.

I looked up at the man who had shared my bed for four years. My voice was so hoarse I could barely speak. “Adrian. That authorization… you signed it?”

His brow tightened almost imperceptibly as he looked at my reddened eyes. He lowered his voice, still speaking with that unquestionable composure.

“Emma, let’s finish the launch first. Whatever this is, we’ll discuss it at home.”