My son-in-law invited me to the deck to watch the moon, intending to push me overboard. He thought I was frail and senile. He didn’t know I used to be an Olympic swimmer. I dodged, and as he flailed, I threw him the lifebuoy… but the rope had been cut beforehand by his own hand.
The Mediterranean night was a velvet shroud, pinned with stars that seemed too bright, too close. The Athena, my private yacht, cut through the glassy black water with a low, rhythmic hum that usually lulled me into a state of peace. But tonight, the silence felt heavy, pregnant with an unspoken threat.
I sat in the main salon, my hands trembling slightly as I lifted a glass of water to my lips. It was a tremor I had cultivated over the last six months, a performance of frailty designed to mask the steel that still ran through my spine. My name is Arthur, and at seventy-five, the world saw a fading tycoon, a man whose mind was beginning to wander like a lost ship. They saw the cane, the slow shuffle, the vacant stares I offered during dinner.
My son-in-law, Greg, saw something else. He saw a walking ATM with an expiration date that wasn’t coming fast enough.
