Chapter 3I Bought The Ocean Liner

When the fog in my mind finally receded, it was the dead of night.

I lay against the freezing floorboards, my body aching as if every bone had been fractured and clumsily reset. Using the faint sliver of moonlight bleeding through the door’s iron grille, I dragged myself across the room.

The latch was engaged, but outside, only the steady rhythm of ocean swells echoed.

The first mate on the "SS Victoria" was an Irishman named Sean. Three years ago, he had been cornered by dockside loan sharks in Marseille; I paid off his debts and saved his life. He had sworn on his mother’s grave that if I ever needed anything, he would repay the debt.

I knew his patrol shift covered the lower decks at midnight.

A pair of quiet footsteps approached.

I pressed my face against the rusted bars and whispered, "Sean."

The footsteps stopped. A bearded face appeared on the other side of the grille.

"Mrs. Laurent?" His voice was laced with panic.

"Sean, listen to me." I slipped off my gold French wristwatch—the only item they hadn't stripped from me—and pushed it through the bars. "Take this. Get to the radio room and send an encrypted wire to the Continental Trade Board in Paris. If their dispatch reaches port authorities before we dock, Charles cannot touch me. Once we’re in New York, I’ll give you five thousand dollars in cash."

Sean took the heavy gold watch, weighing it in his palm, his eyes darting nervously down the hall.

"Ma'am... this is suicide," Sean muttered. "Mr. Laurent gave strict orders. Anyone who comes near this hold gets tossed off the payroll and blacklisted across the Atlantic."

I gripped the iron bars. "Sean, who pulled you out of the gutters in Marseille?"

Sean went rigid. After an agonizing pause, he pocketed the watch and gave a sharp nod. "Wait for me, ma'am."

He vanished down the corridor.

I leaned back against the iron door, letting out a long, ragged exhale. The moment the wire was sent, the European banks would freeze every credit line Charles had attempted to forge under my name.

Minutes trickled by.

I counted the waves slamming against the hull. One hundred. Five hundred. A thousand.

Then, heavy footsteps echoed down the iron walkway—the sharp, arrogant clatter of leather dress shoes.

My stomach dropped into an abyss.

A blinding beam from an electric torch struck my face, forcing me to shield my eyes.

Charles stood on the other side of the bars, wrapped in a heavy wool overcoat over silk pajamas, flanked by two private guards. In his palm, he casually tossed my gold watch.

Behind him stood Sean, head bowed, staring at the floorboards in silent shame.

"A fine timepiece, Sean. Keep it," Charles said smoothly, tossing the watch to the sailor.

Sean caught it with a trembling bow. "Thank you, Mr. Laurent. Thank you."

Charles stepped up to the bars, his expression radiating heartbreak. "Camille... trying to bribe the crew to escape treatment? Do you have any idea how much embarrassment that wire would have caused our family if it had actually gone out?"

He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket—the exact message I had written for Sean. Striking a match, he held the flame to the corner, letting the paper burn to black ash before dropping it onto the floor.

"You're going to burn in hell for this, Charles," I hissed, my knuckles white against the iron.

Charles smiled faintly, reaching through the bars to lightly stroke the back of my hand. "I am your husband, Camille. Everything I do is to protect what remains of your dignity. But since you refuse to cooperate, I have no choice."

He looked toward Dr. Evans, who stood quietly in the background.

"Bring the canvas straitjacket," Charles commanded. "We dock at sunrise. I cannot allow my wife to terrify our peers in this state."

The door was unlocked. Two burly men pinned me to the floor, violently crossing my arms over my chest and forcing them into the stiff, heavy canvas sleeves. The thick leather straps cinched tight around my back, clicking into place with cold finality.

"Charles!" I screamed, writhing against the floor like a fish tossed onto dry land.

Charles stood at the threshold, watching my humiliation with cool satisfaction. He stepped forward, gently brushing a strand of matted hair from my forehead.

"Sleep now, Camille. When you wake up, the nightmare will be over."

The iron door slammed shut, extinguishing the light.

Bound and helpless in the dark, I was left to await the sunrise—and the floating cage that would deliver me to the sanitarium.

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